


Adveniat Regnum Tuum

by NommeDeGuerre



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, Bruce Wayne/Miranda Tate - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 42,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NommeDeGuerre/pseuds/NommeDeGuerre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts in the sweltering heat of midsummer. King Bruce, still mourning the death of his beloved fiancée, plans to travel to the Holy Lands and hopes by joining the Crusade he will find redemption. However, he will leave behind him his new Queen Miranda and Gotham - a land temporarily at peace, but vulnerable and resting on a knife edge. </p><p>Rumours circulate of a new terror led by an old enemy massing on the kingdom's borders; anyone with open eyes and sharp wits can see a storm is coming. Robin John Blake, and the few others still loyal to their king, realise they will have to sacrifice everything if they are to protect the country that they love and bring their leader safely home. Robin Hood!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this some years ago in response to the most wonderful prompt on the TDKR Kink Meme (see Notes at the end for the full text!). It is a Robin Hood!AU and meant to embrace all the wonderful, super cliche tropes that come with that territory. ;) The setting is quasi-medieval (but almost definitely includes hopeless historical inaccuracies). I should probably also caveat that most of my understanding about Robin Hood comes from talking foxes, Kevin Costner facing off with Alan Rickman, and Wikipedia 
> 
> However, I've hopefully cleaned a few of the errors out of this (like spelling Barsad's name correctly...) and I hope you'll enjoy the ride with me!

It started in the sweltering heat of midsummer.

John traversed the cool stone corridors of Gotham Keep restlessly. Technically, he was on duty; Captain Foley enjoyed using his night shifts to send him on all sorts of errands over the castle whilst no one else was around to chastise him for his bullying. He probably thought he was making John hot, sweaty, and irritated.

He was wrong.

Without these foolish tasks, John would never have had an excuse to cross paths with King Bruce. The past fortnight had been dedicated to celebrating the King's wedding. Many feared the king would never find a bride, not after the heartache he suffered at the loss of his betrothed Lady Rachel so many years ago.

The king mourned, seemingly inconsolable. The court began to whisper fretfully about succession, staring at their ruler with pleading eyes. No one liked the thought of uncertainty. Uncertainty meant war and Gotham had finally entered a period of relative peace.

Many said the king's new bride, Miranda, entered a sepulchral court like the brightest ray of sunshine. People stepped back when she passed, so blindingly did she glow. She would not accept the king's seclusion. She drew him out, tempted him back to court life, back to balls, back to feasts, back to meeting with his people to offer judgement and reprieves. King Bruce, having slept for so many years, began to stir and the people rejoiced.

Their marriage was surely inevitable from that point onwards. John never felt King Bruce gazed at the queen the way he used to stare adoringly at Lady Rachel, but he appeared happy, more like his old self.

Privately John felt this rekindling couldn't have come at a better time. Rumours were starting to fly around that Lord Bane, a fearsome man banished before King Bruce's time, was gathering an army. The rumours that members of this army had already infiltrated the kingdom of Gotham with ease were even more concerning.

On deeper reflection, the thoughts made John sick.

He tried to discuss it with Captain Foley. The man wasn't interested, "You're a hot-headed, war-mongering boy, John Blake. If you have time to listen to stories told by women to scare children to bed, you're not working hard enough. From today, I want to see training outside for six hours instead of three."

John threw his hands up in the air, storming out of the Captain's quarters and down a stone corridor. He nearly walked straight into a religious man – possibly a monk from his robe. The man's face was old, but a kindly glint sparkled in his eyes. "Sorry, Father," mumbled John in embarrassment. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"You are forgiven, my son. Remember, wrath is a cardinal sin and will impair your honour and judgement if you allow it to cloud your senses."

John gave the man a hard look. He'd never been one for the church, attending out of respect for the monks who raised him and because it was expected. Sermons washed over him like a gently ebbing tide. An orphan from a young age, John had little time for people who chided him about anger. Rage fuelled him. A desire to punish those who took advantage of the weak dragged him from his bed before the sun rose and saw him maintaining a steady watch through the lonely hours of darkness.

Sure, he’d learnt to put a smile on his face. He needed to keep his position and the courts quickly grew tired of sullen individuals. Lords and Ladies, Dukes and Duchesses, they desired entertainment and romantic chivalry. The females of the court tittered flirtatiously when John flashed them his full grin, relying on his dimples to melt their hearts. However, the fury still lurked in his soul, the small part of him that felt it could so easily throw off the shackles of his uniform and begin its own quest for justice for those murdered like his father who would have no other retribution.

The monk watched the effect of his words, before blessing the young man. John watched him leave, curiosity suddenly aflame. The man was heading towards the king's private quarters. Perhaps he was the royal confessor? He had no time to wonder what secrets the monk must be privy to, however, as he now had three more hours of physical training to squeeze in before his duty tonight. Foley really was a bastard.

\---

The first night he crossed paths with King Bruce, John was clattering down a spiral staircase. They did not need another man on the ramparts, having no real enemy to watch for that night. Instead, he was sent to the armoury on cleaning and repairs duty. His hands were full of scabbards, so full he didn't see the dark figure clinging to the shadows.

He slammed into the man, sending himself ricocheting backwards and the scabbards tumbling noisily towards the floor. Cursing colourfully, John scrambled to get to his feet. He tripped clumsily over one or two of the sword covers in his haste to check the other was unharmed.

The golden band around King Bruce's head was slightly askew, but other than that he seemed more amused than hurt. Horrified at his mistake, John dropped hastily to his knee. "Forgive me, your Majesty." He offered no explanation, terrified that excuses would only serve to incite the king’s wrath further.

"Is there a battle I am unaware of, soldier? I presume there must be from your hurry."

John's ears turned red, "No, your Majesty. No battle."

"That's a relief. Well," he said after a pause, "you must want to be on your way?" Taking that as leave to stand, John hastily scrabbled his pile of equipment together.

He was so embarrassed he kept his eyes firmly rooted to the floor. Maybe there was something in what that old monk had said about anger. His frustration simmered in the pit of his stomach, constantly threatening to boil over. And now he'd just made a fool of himself in front of the one man in court he desired to impress above all others.

He bowed deeply and with grace before skirting passed the king towards his original destination. Before he had gone more than five paces, the king called out, "A moment, soldier. May I ask your name?"

Oh, he was going to get such a bollocking. The king was probably just pretending it was okay so that he could report John to Captain Foley. Damn it all. The man already hated him enough. He'd surely kick him out if he discovered John had been impertinent to the regent. Never one to face disaster like a coward, John turned around boldly. He squared his shoulders, "My name is John Blake of Lower Gotham; I am a member of your Majesty's Guards."

The king smiled at him sadly, "You should go more easily, soldier. There will be time enough for rushing when war comes." The corridor in which they were standing was a favourite haunt of John's. One side had only been half built up, pillars stood at regular intervals supporting the ceiling. These beautiful arches opened out to a magnificent view over the city of Gotham, right the way down to the city walls. The king had nothing more to say, so John performed another hasty bow and went on his way.

The dressing down he was expecting never came. After two days of walking around with his stomach clenched in dread, he decided the king must not have reported his fault. If John had felt devotion for his ruler before then, it was nothing to the burning loyalty he experienced now. As a boy, John had loved hearing tales about King Bruce. The man was an orphan, heir to a fortune admittedly, but an orphan all the same. He had no one there to protect him, no one to guide him or fend for him through all the petty intrigues at court.

Yet, he had made himself indispensable to the previous King and Queen who died without children. They declared him the rightful heir. Conscious he must win the support of all to protect the nation from civil war, King Bruce dedicated himself to justice, to fairness, and tried to live as blamelessly as possible. He made his mistakes, of course, but he cemented his place in the affections of a notoriously fickle populace. John thought his work and what he stood for – ideals he had maintained even after he assumed the throne – were magnificent.

This man was the reason he had worked so hard at the monastery school. King Bruce was the reason John had all but begged the only connection he had in the Guards for a position. He had returned day after day after day, ready and willing to perform the most disgusting and meaningless tasks in order to achieve his goal.

It was naturally very disheartening, then, that the first time he should cross paths with his hero, he ended up dropping a whole heap of scabbards on his feet and knocking his crown wonky. If there was some great big omnipotent force guiding all of this chaos on earth, John Blake was pretty sure it was laughing at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full Original Prompt:
> 
> Princess Talia and Bane overthrow King Bruce, taking control of the Kingdom Gotham. Robin Blake opposes her rule along with his band of men. Eventually Blake realises Bruce is still alive and rescues him. Shortly afterwards Blake is captured by Bane.
> 
> Basically RobinHood!Au where Blake is Robin Hood, Talia is Prince John, Bane is the Sheriff of Nottingham, Bruce is King Richard, etc. etc.


	2. Chapter Two

The second time Blake crossed paths with King Bruce, he was standing in the same corridor, gazing mournfully down across the city. John didn't care what anyone said about the amazing power of the Queen to cheer her husband, this was a man still steeped in grief

In fact, John didn't much care for the Queen at all. He knew it was flirting with treason to entertain such thoughts, but he felt queasy when he watched her. She had the sweetest face and was so attentive to everyone, it would probably make lesser men weep. But Blake couldn't quite control the pang of panic in his stomach when he noted her dark eyes sweep across the court. They weren't gently taking in the goings on. They were the keen eyes of a predator, sharp and calculating.

Perhaps she just wasn't as immune to court gossip as she would like people to think. Maybe she was picking out the ladies who had dared to comment negatively about her choice of attire or the fact an heir had yet to appear?

Then again, John hadn't advanced this far in life passing peculiar events off as coincidence.

With the rumours continuing to surface about Lord Bane and the mysterious appearance of a body near the outlet of the Gotham sewers, his anxiety was growing. Forces were moving in this kingdom and he felt like no one but him could see it.

He would have happily carried on his way in silence, but the king turned to him sharply. "John Blake of Lower Gotham, isn't it?" There was a slight sparkle in his eyes, but apart from that, John thought his face was gaunt, more like a death mask than the rapturous complexion of a newly-wed. The moonlight didn't help. It washed out colour wherever it fell, plunging the world into darkness and shadow. John didn't like the night; there were too many places where enemies could lurk unnoticed.

The king, however, appeared to enjoy his nocturnal excursions. Where the play of shadows sent John reaching for his sword, King Bruce exuded a sense of calm and peace. The night probably released him from the formality of the day, from the unending chain of people draining his energy and life force. Privately John thought being a king probably wasn't all that enjoyable.

"Your Majesty?" he replied tightly, concerned that telling off still might come after all. Maybe he'd just been so insignificant the king had forgotten about it until his face reminded him.

"Have you ever been to the Holy Land, Blake?"

The question took John by surprise. There were regiments of their army, of course, out in the Holy Land, lending support to another, larger country's crusade. King Bruce had negotiated it as part of a deal with an old enemy. They were allies now, bonded by a simultaneous sacrifice of blood in the name of an ideal.

It was another reason why John wasn't too fond of the Church. He didn't like the idea of men dying for no practical reason. If a foreign power was invading your borders, fine. If a tyrant subjected his people to terror and took advantage of his position, fair enough. These wars were about stability and about saving life. To go off to lay claim to a city on the basis of little more than myth was ridiculous. He held his tongue, though.

John spent a lot of his time biting the inside of his cheek until it bled. One day it was going to get too much. Hopefully, someone would start listening before he ended up flogged for insubordination and or, worse, on the gallows for treason. Strong opinions could easily be exchanged for a death sentence.

"I've been once."

"How long were you there for?"

"Six months. It is part of our training that we must see combat."

"How did you find it?"

Blake bristled. He didn't like the wistful expression on the king's face. Devoted subject, he may be, but he wasn't going to spout rubbish about the glory of war. There had been nothing honourable about the bloody spats taking place in those desert lands. "Unpleasant." The king raised an eyebrow, waiting for clarification. "Hot. Dusty. Barbaric."

"But when you came back, how did you feel?"

Sick with guilt, John wanted to say. I still see the faces of the men I murdered who were just defending their homeland. He would like to tell the king about the prisons they burst open, about the atrocities committed by both sides. The king, however, was not stupid and John was sure he must know how war could reduce men to nothing better than animals. "I felt as though I had done my duty, but I would not seek to return."

The king nodded, turning thoughtfully back to the inky skyline. "I have sinned, you know, Blake. I wonder if they would be expunged if I went out there to fight. No more scraps over land. A true fight. A fight for an ideal, for a higher power than the self."

Arguments bubbled up John's throat, but his deference silenced protest. The words came from King Bruce, but they didn't sound like his ideology. John's mind flashed to the old monk with the too bright eyes, laughing at him in his anger. "With all due respect, your Majesty. Your people would sorely miss you. You are needed here."

"But we are at peace, Blake. The people here are content. I have accomplished my task. Crime is down, justice is fair, and I even have a Queen whom the people can love for her gentleness and beauty. Yet still, I cannot sleep. The wrongs of the past must be expiated."

John smoothed his face to outward calm, his mind was racing. The king was contemplating leaving for to fight an endless war? It was a recipe for disaster. What if he was killed? He still had no rightful heir. The thought of Queen Miranda being left as a regent sent inexplicable panic trickling through his veins. Conspiracy called to him in the most innocuous of gestures.

He took in a moment to observe the melancholy king. Were there really hidden enemies at work? Or was he, just as Foley said, a hot head slowly being driven mad by suspicion?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for lovely feedback to the start! I really appreciate it and hope readers continue to enjoy the ride! =)


	3. Chapter Three

By the end of his third sleepless night, John knew what he must do. He needed to find that monk. He was probably the one feeding the king all this rubbish about the Holy Land and making amends for his sins. Probably a zealot who thought he could secure himself a place in heaven if he sent the king off to fight for God. A man of deeds, John felt more confident once he had a course to follow.

This focus even kept his panic at bay when he heard a second body had been discovered at the foot of the city walls. People said the corpses bones were gruesomely broken. The fall, others replied, must have shattered them. Suicide or unfortunate accident? No one was sure; all were politely sympathetic.

When John had elbowed his way through the crowd, relying on his uniform to make them give way, he too thought the damage must have been from the fall. The man had landed flat on his back, smashing the back of his skull into a pulp. The matter leaking out into the surrounding grass should have been making him retch like other bystanders, but John was momentarily frozen by the expression of total fear on the man's face.

It was probably caused by the freezing of the muscles; the universal sign that Death now ruled an empty shell where once a soul flourished. He turned to leave, nauseated by the senselessness of it all. Then it occurred to him. The man's face was pointing outwards. Surely if he'd fallen flat on his back like that, it would be upwards towards the stars? Instead his head was turned like that of an owl, rotated so that he could leer out at the crowd.

John shook his head. Paranoia. It must be. A severe fall like that, anything could happen. He just couldn't shake the shiver, however, that ran through his body. It wouldn't have been possible to explain why, but he knew that man's neck had been snapped like a twig. Someone had killed him and thrown him off. This wasn't a suicide; it was a message to those that were looking for it.

It was a declaration of war.

\---

In the following days, John spent as much time as he could lurking in the corridors leading to King Bruce's chambers. Certain the monk would return, John was determined to find out whether he was responsible for channelling suicidal thoughts into the monarch's head.

On the fourth day, his patience was rewarded.

He heard the slap on sandals on smooth stone before the monk had even turned the corner. Assuming his most menacing stance (which, whilst he was not of the largest stature, was still reasonably intimidating), he stepped into the man's path. His hand lingered near the hilt of his sword, which he wore even when out of uniform. It wasn't a requirement, but Blake felt you could never be too careful.

You never knew, after all, when you'd be threatening defenceless priests in lonely corridors.

"A word, Father?"

The monk gazed at him, startled but clearly not alarmed. John ushered him quickly into a small antechamber off the corridor and shut the heavy wooden door behind them with a dull thud. Aware he might be walking a very dangerous line between preventing treachery and committing it, John opted to drop his stern persona. A boyish face still complete with a degree of innocence often won strangers over quicker than threats.

"I need to speak with you in confidence. If need be, I will come to you at confession. You are bound to keep words spoken there secret, are you not?"

"That won't be necessary, my son. You may speak freely to me in this room. You have the look of an honest man about you." John felt the warning. The priest's tone was communicating caution against rash behaviour. He took a step back, physically demonstrating he meant no physical harm. Slowly the tension drained from the room and the man's face assumed an expression of concern rather than wariness.

"Are you aware that the king desires to fight in the Holy Land?" John cut straight to the chase, still not convinced this man was innocent of feeding the king malicious lies so that he would martyr himself.

"Unfortunately, I am. I have been doing all I can to persuade his Majesty to see reason. He is not listening." An ally, then? John knew what men looked like when they spun falsehoods under pressure. There was no shifting of the feet, no nervous dance of the eyes, or sweat beading on the brow.

"So… you're not the one who gave him the idea?"

The priest pressed his lips together tightly, resting a weary hand upon the wall of the tiny chamber. "I wish I still had that kind of influence. The king hasn't listened to me for a very long time now. I believe the initial suggestion may have come from the Queen. She was concerned at how deeply his Majesty felt responsible for some of the disasters that shook Gotham. She suggested victoriously concluding a religious war might allow him to escape his demons and make peace with his conscience."

Suspicion was a dirty emotion. It lingered in the mind like a slow poison, spreading with each beat of the heart until every thought was tainted. John couldn't help but feel vindicated. Surely this was a step towards proving his doubts about the Queen? "Am I wrong in thinking that it would be extremely bad for Gotham if King Bruce did go abroad?"

"Gotham is not as stable as many would like to believe and you cannot govern your land from foreign shores." John could have leapt for joy. Finally, someone who understood his fears. The priest might be spinning him tales, of course. Feeding John lies so that he could incriminate himself, but the time had come to for trust. His instincts sensed danger and in times of terror, one needs friends more than anything.

"Will you continue to persuade him not to go, then?" The old man nodded. Comforted, John continued, "If I have opportunity, I will also try."

Suddenly conscious that he had behaved rudely to a man of the cloth by practically forcing him into a closet at knife point, John stood aside to allow clear access to the door. His confidence fled, leaving him abashed in the presence of an elder. "I am sorry for my forward behaviour. The king mentioned his intentions to me and ever since I have been deeply concerned."

The priest strode out with confident steps, "You have no need to apologise. You are a good man, John Blake, and your intentions are good if your actions a little overenthusiastic, but that is the downfall of the young. Peace be with you."

Reassured, John watched the old man disappear down the corridor. It was only at dinner some hours later that his spoon stopped short on the way to his mouth.

How did the priest know his name?

\---

"Blake."

In the process of signing in for duty, John froze mid-signature. Foley towered above him, his expression promising a hail of fire and brimstone. Blake finished his name quickly. What had he done now? Apart from, you know, threatening the king's personal priest and suspecting his wife was plotting treason. But, you know, apart from that.

"Blake, you come with me right now."

Not needing to be told twice, John gave his comrades a resigned shrug and ran after the Captain. The man barrelled into his office and barked at John to shut the door.

"Sir, I'm going to be late-"

"Shut up," Foley barked, shuffling pieces of paper around with such violence John was afraid they might catch fire. "I don’t know how you've managed to wangle this, but you've been promoted."

Having been squeezing his eyes shut in preparation for dismissal, John opened one of them to peer out at his Captain. "What?" he asked stupidly.

Foley threw his hands in the air, staring furiously at John. "Don't ask me. In fact, nobody did ask me. The order was waiting on my desk this evening. You're to be a Lieutenant immediately. Lose the uniform. You'll be working as a personal guard to the king."

John's mouth flapped open and shut. He couldn't think what to say. There were clearly questions that needed to be asked, but he couldn't get further than 'lose the uniform'. John quite liked the dark blue cloth that marked out a member of the King's Guard. He would be almost sorry to exchange it for the sombre black usually sported by those responsible for guarding the king as he moved around the castle and country.

"Seriously, you want to tell me how this happened? You're an idiot. I got at least five men I'd have put above you. You sleeping with someone for this?"

Indignation blossomed, sharply refocusing John's mind of the present. He folded his arms, blushing at the accusation. John wouldn't care, but he couldn't actually the remember the last time he _had_ slept with a pretty girl, never mind someone with enough influence to get him promoted. "I most certainly did not!"

In their mutual anger, neither man noticed the door to the office was open. John couldn't keep the stupefied expression off his face. The king's priest was standing in the door way, looking more comfortable here than John had ever seen him. "I did knock, but nobody answered. I was concerned when I heard raised voices."

"What are _you_ doing here?" The degree of venom in Foley's voice was surprising. It was usually the tone he saved for John when he was being particularly irritating.

The priest ignored him. "I couldn't help but overhear the accusations you just made against Lieutenant Blake's character."

Foley spluttered. "I- I stand by what I said. He’s barely even finished probation and he causes more trouble than any of my other men. You mark my words," he brandished the written order, "this boy has been up to no good."

The priest regarded him calmly, "The order has come directly from King Bruce. You must be able to tell it is written in his hand. Are you questioning the King's judgement?"

His tone was cold, his words firm. Foley recognised a lost battle when it was shoved in front of his face. Sparing John one last contemptuous look, he snarled, "Get out of my sight!"

Still totally bemused by the priest's arrival, John took to his heels a little slowly. Just as he shut the door on his way out, he heard Foley growl, "Did you have a reason for darkening my doorway, or do you just have a gift for making bad days worse?"

Once the initial euphoria past, questions began to stir more clearly in John's mind. He shouldn't have been in line for a promotion. True, he had spoken with King Bruce twice, but neither was a particularly great moment. Men reached this position after stunning acts of valour. Many of them already having put their lives on the line for their king. They were the most faithful of the faithful and John felt inadequate in their company.

Ideally, he wanted to discuss the matter with the priest, but after his visit to Captain Foley's office John did not seen him once round the castle. With new duties and new comrades to prove himself to, John simply didn't have the free time to hunt him down again.

The questions would just have to wait.


	4. Chapter Four

Although John imagined many chances for conversation in which he could convince King Bruce not to leave, reality had other ideas. Retrospectively, it was alarming how quickly everything collapsed, toppled like a chain of dominoes.

Technically, he wasn't meant to be working that third evening after his promotion. They all were scheduled at least one day off a week, but Blake in his early enthusiasm swapped with another man. He was anxious not to miss an opportunity to earn King Bruce's trust, to be taken once more into his confidence.

He stood to attention outside the king's bedchamber door. Gotham Keep's lone bell mournfully tolled three o'clock. John always hated this hour. Dawn was so far away and even those who struggled to settle at night drifted off about now. It was truly lonely. Although his body was alert, his mind started to wander. Lulled by the heavy silence into a false sense of security.

The hinges of the king's door made only the faintest of creaks, but it was the sound all the king's personal guards rapidly trained themselves to listen for. Focus slammed back into his body, jolting John into a position of full attentiveness. Instinctively adrenaline surged, sending his pulse and heart rate racing. A figure swathed in soft black cloth was slipping through the door.

"Who goes there!" he cried, one hand going to the hilt of his sword and the other to bunch harshly in the cloth at the stranger's neck. He slammed the man back against the wall. The figure beneath him gasped, simultaneously winded and struggling to draw breath.

Through the thick cowl, a gruff voice rasped, "Blake? Is that you?"

Both alarmed and confused, John hastily pushed back the heavy folds of the hood. There stood King Bruce. So voluminous was the cloth around his body, it appeared to be swallowing him whole. Immediately Blake let go, horrified that he had not only manhandled the king, but essentially disrobed him as well. Why did these things always happen to him?

"I thought you weren't meant to be on duty tonight."

"I swapped," John explained automatically, still staring at the king with wide eyes. "Does your Majesty require anything?"

Bruce smiled kindly at the young man. "No. I don't need anything. This would have been easier if you hadn't been here, but I'm strangely glad that you are. You may accompany me to the castle doors."

"Are you going out at this hour, your Majesty?" Blake couldn't fathom what sort of errand or whim would send a man out at this gloomy time in the morning, but King Bruce had never been one to abide by convention.

Genuine animation took hold of the king's features; he practically bounced the next few steps forward. "I am resolved, Blake. I am leaving for the Crusade tonight! A group of my best soldiers are waiting below to accompany me to a ship." The king was beaming. John hadn't seen his smile this broad for years; he hadn't even looked this joyous at his wedding. It wasn't a proper smile though, it was the grinning leer of a madman.

The bottom of his stomach was currently somewhere on the floor. Bruce clasped him by the shoulders, directing them towards the stairs that would lead to the main door and then the courtyard. His body was strong and warm underneath the folds of black cotton. No one had touched John so familiarly for many months. The single touch melted him; he could not let this man embrace his own destruction with a welcoming smile on his face.

With difficulty, he forced himself from the king's side. "Your Majesty, please forgive my rudeness, but I beg you-" He fell to his knees, desperate to do anything that would draw Bruce from this haze of idealism. "I beg you on my knees, do not pursue this quest in foreign lands!"

Frowning, Bruce drew the young man physically up from the floor. "I understand your apprehension, Lieutenant Blake. Believe me, I have endured the piteous tears of my Queen. Nothing came so close to breaking my resolve as knowing I had reduced her to such a wretched state. But you must understand, I can make a difference there. The war there will never finish without a figure, a leader to galvanise the men. If I could draw the bloodshed to a close, I will surely earn forgiveness for my past errors."

If John had been a man more inclined to give into his emotions, he might have wept like the Queen to hear those words. "Your Majesty, please! The war in the Holy Land is barbarous. There is no code of honour. Their swords are cruel and they cut deeply without distinction between victims. I will show you the scars I carry, if you do not believe me. What will Gotham do if you are struck down in battle? Who will lead her and continue to steer her in the direction of progress? You say you can make a difference in the Holy Land, but your presence is needed more here. I hope you will forgive me for speaking so out of turn, but what you seek is a fool's quest. You are placing yourself in grave danger!"

Taken aback by such a passionate plea, Bruce faltered for a moment at the top of the grand stairs leading down to the Great Hall and out to the courtyard. "Gotham does not need me now. The systems I have established for justice and protecting the weak run like well-oiled machines. They no longer need of an engineer, only a trustworthy operator."

"You don't understand!" John was by now running to keep up with the king's powerful strides. Bruce leapt down the stairs two or three at a time. Every so often he would cast a wild-eyed glance at John, as though he were running from him in fright. "There is something not right in the city."

"What do you mean?"

"There have been bodies."

"I heard about the bodies. Only two and in places where corpses are commonly found, is that not so?"

John could not dispute the facts. Bruce continued as though patiently talking down to a young child, "If you are concerned by the gossip of courtiers about Lord Bane, John, I have sorely misjudged you. No one has seen Bane for years, not since he was driven from this city. He is likely dead or long fled to a foreign land. You are worrying about shadows, nothing more than the ghosts of the past trying to assert their sway over the present. I am leaving Gotham for precisely that reason. I must let go of the past before I can embrace the future."

They reached the magnificent carved wooden doors that stood open during the daytime to admit visitors to the court. Bruce paused in front of a smaller opening carved into the wood. He placed a key into the lock, turning it ready to open. John rushed to his side, gasping for breath after the exertion of the near run. "Is there really nothing I can say to stop you from leaving tonight?"

The king shook his head with a grave sadness. John didn't need the dark or the unsettling illumination of Bruce's face in the low light that signalled the approach of dawn to feel an ill omen settle upon them. Before he saw his king again, John knew he would have to survive many awful ordeals and everything would be changed. "Listen, I am glad that you were the one to accompany on this first stage of my quest. I now have a favour to ask of you, will you grant me this request?"

John could only nod mutely, already consumed by the misery of failure. "I want you to look after the Queen," Bruce continued, totally oblivious now to Blake's distress. "She will be lonely and very unhappy; I want you to see she is comforted and looked after. I appreciate this is asking a lot of you, but if you could also keep an eye out for Alfred, I would be grateful."

"Alfred?"

"He manages my original ancestral home and looked after me for many years. We've not spoken for some months now as a result of personal differences. If there was time, I would make amends personally. There is no time, however, so all I ask is that you visit from time to time to make sure he is well. Can you do these things for me?"

"Your Majesty," answered Blake truthfully, "I would go to the very end of the earth, if that was what you required of me."

"I feel I can rest easy knowing your eyes are watching out for those close to me. Do not worry for my safety; I shall return home a happier man before the court will even have had time to notice I am gone." With that he slipped out into the night. Outside John could hear the unmistakeable clip of horses's hooves on cobbles and the soft calls of men checking they were satisfactorily prepared for a journey.

Leaning against the open door for support, the riders seemed to parade tauntingly before John as they headed for the gatehouse and the already open portcullises. The weight of failure settled on Blake's shoulders, driving him to the ground where he remained for at least an hour. He had let the king ride cheerfully to his death and there was no comfort to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short update, but uh oh. =(


	5. Chapter Five

Two terrible months passed. Summer eased gradually into a gentle autumn. The days were still warm, but the nights brought with them a sharp chill. In the tops of the trees green was starting to give way to brown and the populace of the city began to think and talk of nothing but the coming harvest. It had been a warm summer, so hopes were high.

Although confused by the sudden departure of the king, the country had not foundered. The Queen was for a week completely inconsolable, but gradually she emerged from her chambers and began to sit in for her husband where matters of state were concerned.

In her new position of authority, her sweetness gave way to dignity. Where many once saw her as Princess Miranda, the young girl who danced on light feet and glowed like the dawn, she assumed an aura of grandeur. There could be no doubt she was a Queen. The people were grateful for a solid figurehead, throwing caution to the wind and offering her their total devotion.

John wanted to be glad, but he could not shake his sensation of distrust. He continued to perform his duties, to watch and to wait.

He did not have to wait long for calamity to strike.

The court had gathered for a debate on various trade laws. The subject matter was dull. John, still being new and having much to prove, often landed unwanted sessions of duty. Thus he was standing in the Great Hall near the throne as robed men bellowed about taxes, scales, and foreign exchange. To be fair, the Queen looked about as engaged as he felt.

She seemed distracted, constantly turning to gaze out of the window at the weak sunshine. Known for her fondness of the castle grounds, John suspected she would much rather be outside right now, wrapped in a thick cloak and inhaling the clean air.

Without warning a bedraggled man stumbled through the arched entrance to the Hall. His clothes were tattered, splattered with mud. He stared around at the courtiers with wide eyes, seemingly on the point of madness. Two guardsmen clattered in after him and seized him roughly under the arms.

"Please forgive us, your Majesty?" They spoke breathlessly, sweating under the weight of their armour. "We attempted to detain him, but he fought with the strength of a bull."

"Get off of me!" screamed the stranger. In a desperate spectacle, he fought tooth and nail. He dragged the men forwards in his struggle, practically writhing in their grip as he drew them to the floor. His voice was shrill, but clear. "You don't understand, you fools! You don't understand! I have a message. I have come from the Holy Land."

All activity in the Hall stopped immediately. The Queen shot towards the very edge of the throne. John's blood chilled in his veins. The soldiers trying to contain the messenger released him, totally dumbfounded. No one dared to speak. All eyes rested on the pitiful figure wheezing on the floor. "I have- I have travelled without pause. I am exhausted, but I could not stop. I bring terrible news."

Queen Miranda had pressed a hand to her mouth. She was trembling violently. Sitting up and suddenly in total command of his senses, the messenger declared, "The King is missing, presumed dead after a disastrous skirmish with the enemy."

It was John who caught the Queen as she fainted away, supporting her slim body and feeling like the clumsiest oaf around. Close he caught the faintest scent of roses, could appreciate the smooth, clear quality of her skin. No wonder King Bruce and the nation held her as an object of devotion. Even in a horrified stupor, her beauty was astonishing.

As gently as possible, he lifted her lifeless body so that it was cradled against his chest. Ignoring the terrified cries of Gotham's nobility, he stalked from the room with an expression as dark as thunder. No one tried to stop him from leaving. The messenger lay prostrate and lifeless on the floor. Totally exhausted by the terrible news he bore and his rapid, punishing journey, he passed out on the cold flagstones.

As he carried the Queen to her chamber, John gained a precious few moments of tranquillity in which to compose his own thoughts. Missing presumed dead was not the same thing as dead. They would need to question this man further, of course. He perhaps would be able to provide incontrovertible details. If that was the case, John would mourn with the rest.

He vowed then and there, his resolve strengthened by the pathetic sight of the Queen in his arms, that he would not stop serving and fighting in King Bruce's name until someone presented him with a body. The events of the last few months were tainted with wrongness. They felt scripted, as though a puppet master was jerking their strings, forcing the entire country into an awkward, deadly dance.

But John Blake was the king’s man through and through and he would not abandon him to some ignominious fate on a foreign field.

\--- 

The chill winds and short days of late October suited a nation in the midst of mourning. Queen Miranda startled John by refusing to hold a funeral for the king. "Give it a year," she pleaded with the council of noblemen who were responsible for advising the monarch on matters of state. "Please, let us wait. Someone may find his body. I cannot bear to bury an empty coffin or weep over a hollow sarcophagus."

They were, of course, won over by her tears. All desperately wanted to share in her hope that news would reach them the king had been discovered safe and well.

The news never came, so gradually John trained himself not to wait for it. The kingdom was uneasy. Although power remained with the Queen and it seemed unlikely anyone inside the kingdom would challenge, it was only a matter of time before foreign nations became aware of Gotham's weakened state. They were vulnerable and the populace knew it. John saw fear in the people's eyes as they hurried around the market. Women kept their children close and men muttered darkly over tankards of ale in the inns.

Blake half wondered whether this uneasy status quo would continue until the threat of invasion materialised. In his haze of grief, he forgot about the sewers and the whispers about the monsters lurking in the foul tunnels below ground. He kept his eyes fixed solely on the Queen, judging her every action.

It was the first day of November and the Queen had called an emergency council following the All Souls mass. Many of the lords and ladies were curious, the Queen had been previously content to stick to the timetable her husband kept. She had not yet exercised her own authority, so lords and ladies poured themselves into the large chamber.

Queen Miranda sat on the throne, enveloped in a simple black dress. Dark ringlets matched by dark eyes watched the assembling of the court. Only the grip of her fingers on the arms of the throne betrayed an anxiety or tension. John assumed his customary position to the left of the raised dais. Clothed simply, people barely noticed his presence any more. He liked the anonymity, as it meant he could observe without risking impertinence.

The presiding member of the Privy Council rose to his feet, snuffing out the chatter like a candle flame. "The court will pay its respect to her Majesty, Queen Miranda the First of Gotham." The entire Hall rose to its feet, sinking into a respectful bow.

Queen Miranda did not have a loud voice, but it rang around the Hall with authoritative clarity. "I thank you all. You may rise." She waited for the whispers to cease and fabric to stop rustling before continuing. "As your Queen, I am aware that the responsibility for protecting my country, the country that welcomed me with open arms when I arrived a stranger to this land. It has already been brought to my attention that without the presence of King Bruce, Gotham's status and safety is precarious. It is only a matter of time before our new weakness is exposed and tested."

She paused, her audience waited spellbound. "I have long considered a course of action to take. I believe out steps must be bold and courageous; we must show our enemies we are not afraid face the unknown with our heads high. Consequently, I put my decision to you all. I wish to recall Lord Bane from banishment."

Horrified gasps slipped from the mouths of many ladies present. The mere mention of the man's name had many men on their feet, old and young alike reaching automatically for weapons. John for his part closed his eyes in quiet despair. The Queen must be mad and she was going to drag the entire nation down to share in the chaos. John had heard the stories about Bane. His name was used to frighten naughty children. Word of mouth turned man into legend and legends were more greatly feared. Any man may kill another, but it takes a hero to slay a monster.

The leader of the Privy Council stared dumbfounded at the Queen. "You cannot!" he gasped, throat constricted in horror.

Turning to him, the Queen cried, "Do you think I do this willingly? Our choices are limited. Gotham is vulnerable and we need the presence of a strong man with a strong army."

"Your Majesty, we _have_ an army. We can recruit. We will train. Border guards will be doubled."

"Our army has been weakened by years of peace. Lord Bane's men are ready to fight. Besides," she looked sadly down at the man who had dared to voice his opposition, "there is no point in resisting."

"What does your Majesty mean?" 

"There is no point in resisting," answered a strange voice from the doorway of the Hall, rough and tinged with a triumphant mockery, "because I am already here."

\---

A stunned silence reigned over the inhabitants of Gotham Keep. Its fabled enemy stood with impunity at its doors and its king, its defender, was lost. The battle, if you could call it that, was won without a blade leaving its sheath.

Lord Bane calmly pushed the doors to the Hall open wider. They gaped sickeningly to allow an unending stream of soldiers through. These men were dressed in black, their faces covered, and their actions ruthless. They washed as a formidable wave through the stupefied citizens. Any man holding a weapon had it stripped from him. Women emitted startled cries as they were pushed into groups to allow easier control.

The whole business took less than five minutes. No one tried to fight back. The majority froze with shock and those with their wits still about them quickly understood the situation was hopeless.

John tried to melt back towards the wall, hoping in vain he might be able to slip out through the small door behind the throne dais. He barely made it a metre before he felt the sharp kiss of a blade at his throat. A hand wrapped snugly around his waist, drawing him flush against the soldier's body. "Why the hurry, pretty boy?"

The man spoke with an accent and smelt faintly of a spice Blake couldn't place. They were clearly foreign. Mercenaries most likely. He felt the blade being scraped gently up the curve of his throat, forcing his head to tilt backwards and dragging where first hints of stubble were starting to show. The man's mouth was almost pressed against his ear. "Very slowly drop your sword on the floor. You struggle and it won't be you that pays the price, understand? Slow and easy."

If there was one thing Blake couldn't stand, it was being patronised and treated like he was weak. He wasn't weak. He'd spent his whole life fighting to achieve the goals he set himself as a child. Mercenaries were vile. Unpredictable and disloyal vermin, they tormented and bullied where the fee was highest. John would have liked nothing more than to engage the bastard in a fair fight, but his was not the only life at stake.

Furious but obedient, he drew the sword and dropped it to the floor with a clatter. Even though he was disarmed, the man made no move to release him. Instead he turned the knife so that the flat of the blade rested against his neck, a warning about who was in charge.

Before him, Blake was about to watch a gruesome spectacle take place. Whilst he engaged in his own struggle, the man who had spoken out against the Queen's proclamation, the lone voice of dissent, was thrashing in the grip of two soldiers.

Lord Bane lingered calmly by the doorway, waiting for his men to secure control before advancing further. His eyes scanned the balconies, but instead of the king's archers, he only saw the glinting eyes of his soldiers. Those in the Hall would not be aware of it yet, but it wasn't only the castle that had been overrun. In one sweep he had taken control of the entire capital. From there his control over Gotham would only extend.

His men even now were probably still pouring from the sewers in which they had lurked undisturbed for months. If he listened carefully, he fancied he could hear the screams of a terrified populace. Content the first and most critical stage of his plans were a success, he stalked forwards. His second in command followed behind; a silent shadow awaiting orders.

The soldiers forced the old Earl to his knees. Not one of the other members of the Privy Council moved to support him. You could hear the rasping breaths rattling from his old chest and John was so overwhelmed with frustrated pity he tensed his muscles to move without even thinking. In an instant the blade nicked his skin. The man pressed the tip delicately right under his jaw. "Remember what I told you."

Bane was by now kneeling in front of the old man. He delicately lifted the old man's head so that he could look him in the eye. "You've grown old, Earl Roberts. Has it really been so many years?"

The old man ripped his head away, pushing himself up onto his knees. He spat, a strangely crude gesture from one John had always associated with wisdom and grace. "You've not changed though, Lord Bane. You're what you always were - a traitor and a murderer."

Bane chuckled to himself, regaining his feet as he laughed. Addressing the people staring at him in terror, he threw his arms wide. "I have not come here to shed blood purposelessly. If I had, you would all be dead by now. Life is precious and not to be wasted. Lay down your arms and accept my authority, that is all I ask. If, however, you choose to fight, allow me to demonstrate the cost of rebellion." He raised a hand to summon Barsad from behind. Pointing at the old Earl, he ordered, "Kill him."

Blake wanted to cry out in horror, but the scream lodged in his throat. Calmly Barsad slipped down behind the old man, drew his head back by his grey hair and slit his throat. The man didn't even have chance to protest. Nausea washed over John as he thought of the old man's wife, his children, and tiny grand children. His assailant increased the strength of his grip. He took a deep breath and tried to will the fight from his body. The time would come, he promised, the time would come when they would pay.

Observing the growing pool of blood, Bane's man stepped back, but not before casually wiping his knife on the old man's robes. "Would anyone else," asked Bane almost sweetly, "like to lodge a protest?"

No one dared to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for comments/kudos/any kind of feedback. <3 Pace of plot picking up a little bit now!


	6. Chapter Six

Satisfied his point had been made for the meantime, Bane now switched his attention to the Queen. She sat on the throne, an expression of horror on her face, but her spine ramrod straight. He advanced towards her, extending a hand ready to lead her down.

This was simply too much. John emitted a snarl of rage. He threw his hands up to the forearm resting against his chest, relying on surprise to give him the edge. Yanking it down sharply to remove the blade from his throat, he followed the action by a vicious kick to the man's instep. Startled by the sudden violence of John's attack, he wasn't expecting the elbow that collided with his nose. John could hear the bones snap and the choked off cry of pain even as he ripped out of the man's hold.

Storming forwards, he threw himself between Bane and the Queen before his mind could catch up to what his body was doing. Both stared at him in amazement. Not that he noticed with the adrenaline throbbing through his veins. "Don't you _dare_ touch her!" He spread his arms wide, as though he could actually offer some degree of protection.

All John could hear was the king's voice in his head, asking softly that he would protect the Queen. He might have failed once, but he would not do so again.

Standing directly in front of the man, John felt the first stirrings of true fear spark. He'd heard stories about Lord Bane, of course. It was the kind of thing small boys whispered to each other when the lights went out. _He wears a mask_ , they would shriek in delighted terror, _because he needs something to hold his face together. Without it, his entire jaw would drop away!_

By the time John reached the barracks, the stories were different. Cocky young men training with various weapons would speak of his bulk, the power of his muscle. _My father saw him fight once_ , one recruit would declare. _He pulled a knight in full armour from his horse, put a hand either side of his helmet and squeezed until the man's brains starting dripping through his visor._ Such tall tales heightened the atmosphere of bravado as they dared each other to explore their physical limits, but none of them came close to doing the man justice.

His worse a heavy, dark vest that John would bet anything was plated. His arms otherwise were bare, allowing any man to observe the ripple of muscle under his skin. Blake thought almost hysterically if he took hold of the man's biceps when they were flexed, his fingertips wouldn't touch. He risked a glance down at thick legs, heavy black boots, and large - oh so large - hands. John could see them even now, forcing a skull to cave in upon itself and the brains oozing out between the gaps of cracked bone.

The lower half of Bane's face was indeed covered by black, coarse cloth. A shaved head served only to draw focus to his eyes. Where John burned with fire, Bane's eyes blazed with the cold fury of ice. Cruelty and ruthlessness were not the sole occupants in his gaze, however. Blake's pale face loomed large in the man's black pupils and there he saw something much more alarming stir to life: curiosity.

John was terrified, but he did not stand aside.

Bane blinked once, before stepping back and mocking John with a half bow. "If I am so unworthy, perhaps you would be kind enough to escort the Queen from the throne room." Blake's distrustful expression must have betrayed the grotesque fears running through his mind. Was Bane going to kill the Queen? Imprison her? "My patience is not infinite. Queen Miranda and I have affairs of state to discuss."

Allowing himself to draw breath, John nodded jerkily. Part of him couldn't quite believe he was still alive. Turning stiffly, he bowed and then held out an arm for her to take. "Your Majesty?" Her gentle fingers shook as they rested on his wrist and she gazed at him as though seeing him for the first time. Together they progressed towards the exit that lead towards the private state chambers.

The stone flagstones trembled under John's feet, reminding him that Bane followed only metres behind. Any thoughts John had about why he'd been left unpunished were not allowed to reach their conclusion. The prospects were terrifying and no matter what his line of enquiry, Blake was certain he would pay for his impulsiveness.

\--- 

Remaining surprisingly true to his word, Bane allowed no further bloodshed within the castle. Outside a greater number had suffered, but with Bane's men so clearly in control of the city, no one saw any point in wasting lives fruitlessly in protest. On the afternoon of his victory, Bane emerged from his meeting with Queen Miranda to announce he would be formally known as the Sheriff of Gotham and would take full charge of the city. Everything else, he ordered, should continue as normal.

Two days in and John couldn't bear the tension. People barely spoke, terrified that a wrong word would land them in the dungeons or dead. Bane's men were everywhere, listening to everything. Blake half expected to see them tormenting the castle servants, but their behaviour was impeccable. They were well trained, whether in self-discipline or fear of their master's ire, it was impossible to say.

Ideally John would have kept a low profile, silently observing without anyone caring about who he was. His little stunt in the throne room put pay to that plan. It didn't matter where he went, out in the courtyard or in his private chamber, he could not shake the sensation of eyes following him.

No one was allowed to leave the castle grounds and John felt caged. He longed to be free, to run and ride as he was accustomed. The closest he could get to this liberation was the archery field. Bane's men policed the gardens, but otherwise they remained accessible.

Blake thought their new Sheriff wouldn't have wanted any possible opposition walking around armed, but this communicated his self-assurance better than words. Arm yourselves all you like, he seemed to say, it won't do any good.

Although no one stopped John when he paced down the corridor carrying his bow and quiver of training arrows, he felt them subtly close down upon him. The men seemed to pass him from one to another, shadowing him down to the secluded area of lawn set aside for archery practice.

Let them do what they liked, thought John bitterly. He was here to seek refuge and calm. Gradually the chaos about him faded into the tension of the bow string, the keen observation of the target, and the exhale of breath before release. He began at a relatively easy distance, gradually moving further and further from the straw boss.

Arrows sailed through the air, striking the gold each time. You'd never catch him boasting about it, but John Blake of Lower Gotham was probably the best man with a bow the country had seen for many years, accurate and graceful. It was the only reason Captain Foley hadn't been able to dismiss him without a second thought. John was so absorbed in his much neglected training, he did not notice the guard change places with an altogether different figure.

It was only when he knelt down to adjust the tension in his bow string that he caught sight of familiar black boots. John wished he didn't recognise them. The sickening fear and nausea rushed right back his spine like a tidal surge, but John was determined he wouldn't give the man the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. Blake finished his adjustments, stood up, and met Bane's gaze head on.

Five arrows rested in a stand next to him. Facing the target once more, John reached for the first arrow. It lodged straight into the centre. Though his palms were sweaty, he took the second and the third and so on until he had constructed a perfect cross.

The gauntlet was thrown, and there would be no backing out now.

\--- 

Bane accepted the pitiful challenge with a relish that surprised even himself.

"You have quite the gift."

He would not jump; he would ignore the hairs raising on the back of his neck; he would not listen to the voice screaming at him to run. There was a hook on a nearby post onto which John deposited his bow. He wasn't sure what Bane wanted, but his bow was his most expensive and prized possession. He'd rather it didn't end up broken or covered in blood.

"I assume you are a soldier. A member of the King's Guard?"

Though cloth muffled his words, John still hated the sound of his voice. So controlled, so charming. The lilt of its undulating tone was almost hypnotic. He ordered violence like he was asking for tea. It unsettled John who for the most part wore his heart very firmly on his sleeve. There was no quick and obvious way to read Bane. He struck like a poisonous viper, with speed and unpredictability.

John would need to act though. He couldn't just stand mutely, presenting his back to an enemy. He turned and bowed stiffly, "May I be of service, Lord Bane?" (Technically, he ought to be addressed as Sheriff, but the title was archaic and felt awkward on his tongue.)

"Your skill with a bow is indisputable, but have you slaved as much over your hand to hand combat?" As he spoke, Bane shed the thick jacket he wore as protection from the elements with a roll of his shoulders. John caught sight of those impossibly huge muscles, the bulging tendons in his neck, and that was all the warning he had.

He wanted to laugh. He was about half Bane's size. The only advantages he could possibly have were speed and agility. And, in this case, these weren't advantages to fight - they were gifts to help you _run. away_.

Bane swung a hook at his jaw, forcing him to duck underneath the blow. He still wore that protective vest, which meant any blows to the stomach and chest would be fruitless. Gritting his teeth, John attempted to buy time by jabbing at the man's chin. Only, when John's fist arrived, his target was long gone. For such a large man, Bane moved with astonishing grace and fluidity.

Seizing John's right wrist, he squeezed without mercy. Blake cried out sharply as he felt the thin bones grate beneath his skin. A fierce kick to the knee buckled his right leg, sending him plummeting to the floor. Using the momentum, Bane twisted his imprisoned arm right up behind his back, drawing it so high John was forced to arch uncomfortably off his knees to ease the tension.

"How disappointing." Bane's face was practically nuzzled against his cheek; he could feel the soft cotton of the cloth scrape across his skin. At the same time, a noticeable scent assailed his senses. It was strong… camphor, perhaps? John didn't have time to get much further before he was hauled unceremoniously to his feet.

Bane spun him mercilessly at the shoulder, "Care to try again?"

\---

They sparred twice more. Blake could not think of anything he wanted to do less than lose spectacularly to this man over and over, but he didn't appear to have much choice. By the end of the third round, he was aching, breathless, and pressed flush against his straw practice target. The arrows in their neat cross formation rested level with his chest, mocking him. What good were arrows if you didn't have any hands with which to stab them through your opponent’s eye?

Bane held both of his wrists in one massive grip. It irked John more than frightened him. He was flushed and sweaty, whilst Bane treated the whole matter like a joke and he nothing more than a naughty child to be humiliated.

Using his other hand, he grasped John's chin to draw his face upwards. "Many people think I am nothing but a mindless brute; they judge without looking."

If the straw hadn't been scratching uncomfortably at the back of his neck, John would have sworn he was dreaming, pleaded with anyone who would listen for this to be nothing more than a nightmare. The back of Bane's hand ran gently up and down his jawbone; the man was caressing him. There was no other expression for it. "However, I can appreciate fine things when I see them. We are entering a time of war. Delicate objects require protection if they are to emerge unscathed."

John's toes curled with the effort of _not_ stamping on the bastard's foot. In his rage, thoughts tumbled across his mind into a whirlwind. Delicate? _Delicate?_ A fine object to be protected? What was he? A painting? And as for protection, well John could tell Bane where to stuff that. Just because Bane was abnormally huge and strong, didn't mean John couldn't fight men his own size and beat them to a pulp. He didn't shirk hard work and had suffered more than his share thus far in life. 

Just in case John could be in any doubt of the deal Bane was offering, he realised sickly he could feel Bane's visceral interest in the charms of his body pressing most indecently into his thigh. A flush rose to his cheeks. Was this how Bane was going to make him pay for impunity?

"I am not so fragile as you would make out," he spat in disgust. "I will not barter my body in exchange for your protection. You want someone to warm your bed, seek company elsewhere. I will submit to my king and for my country, no one else."

Absorbing Blake's pale skin, dishevelled dark hair, and haughty expression, Bane unexpectedly stepped back. Release took John by surprise and he stumbled forwards. His various aches and sprains sent him crumpling towards the floor. He glanced up in time to hear Bane murmur, "A pity." Cloyingly sympathetic, his tone sent alarm bells ringing in John's head. He was looking at John the way doctor's observed patients whose wounds or illnesses were fatal.

"I would improve your sparring skills," he commentated idly, turning away to stalk back to the castle. As he passed, his fingers brushed along the smooth wood of John's bow, "You won't always have your favoured weapon to hand in a fight and next time your opponent may not be so… merciful."

Bane's threat hung over John like a personal storm cloud. Every word seemed engraved on his memory and he felt as though he carried the weight with him everywhere he went. No matter how many times John washed his face, he could not rinse the scent of camphor from his skin. He could not stop the terrified beating of his heart every time he was in Bane's presence. There was nothing he could do when he snapped bolt upright in the middle of the night, the suffocating impression of huge limbs holding him down as he struggled fruitlessly still fresh in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the lovely responses! I'm having such a fun time editing my way through this as I post the chapters! =)


	7. Chapter Seven

Sneaking around the castle grounds as pale dawn light filtered through the narrow windows did not feel like a safe plan. Since his unsettling encounter with Lord Bane, however, John had been able to cool his heels no longer. The man was up to no good and John would be damned if he didn't at least try to get a step ahead.

It was thus he came to be pressed against the wall beneath Queen Miranda's study, cursing whatever deity decided rose bushes ought to have thorns. His hands were shredded and he could bet his clothes weren't much better. He'd snuck in under the cover of darkness and the dawn rose accompanied by a blissful curtain of autumnal mist.

With the fog swirling across the grounds, Blake was confident he could slip out unnoticed. Why he was here? Who could say. His career as a spy was in its fledgling stage and it seemed easier to wait outside a window slightly ajar than… say, enter Lord Bane's personal chambers and rifle through his papers.

The prime concern for most people would probably be certain death if they were caught. John apparently had the extra blessing of needing to protect his virtue. The whole encounter down on the archery field had been surreal. If it wasn't for the heated glances he received at the dinner table in the evenings, John would be scolding his imagination for running riot.

And what a thing to run riot _about_. Ready to launch into another mental catalogue of all the reasons why Lord Bane was terrifying, John froze. He could have sworn he heard voices… Holding his breath, he waited whilst his heartbeat thundered in his ears. No, no. It was Queen Miranda's voice, certainly.

"You cannot expect me to condone this course."

"I have no come here to seek your consent, your Majesty. I am merely informing you of my plans."

"They are barbaric."

"It cannot be helped. The army will turn against me sooner or later. I must anticipate their retaliation."

"I cannot bear to listen any longer."

"Then please excuse me. The order for the men to assemble has already been given. You will understand why I am leaving guards at your door. I cannot risk your interference."

If the Queen had anything further to say, it was swallowed by the sound of footsteps. Quiet returned, but Blake felt as though he had been released from blinkers. All around he was suddenly overwhelmed by sound: the murmur of men - of soldiers, the clink of swords and the stamp of boots. The King's Guard! He must have missed the call to parade.

He tore from the rose bushes without a thought for caution. Time was what he needed and it was scarce. The men would assemble in an interior courtyard. Above the courtyard was a gallery. If he could avoid the main arteries from their quarters, he should be able to scout ahead. Sprinting inside the Keep and up several flights of stairs, he burst out onto the stretch of balcony the rich were prone to use as a sheltered promenade.

Peering over the balcony, Blake found a large body of troops already massed below. A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision snapped his head left. The man was hidden in shadow, but John could make out his ghoulish silhouette well enough. One of Bane's men stood, crossbow at the ready. Five paces along there was another and another and another. Trembling, John faltered back through the empty archway leading to the stairs.

The soldiers were walking into a trap, not a parade, but a massacre.

\--- 

Pounding back down to the ground floor, he slammed into some stragglers running even as they pulled their uniform straight. "Stop!" shouted John, struggling to keep the hysteria from his voice. "Stop! Stop! Turn around. Get out! The whole thing is a trap."

The men hesitated, but a gruff voice bellowed, "What’s all this nonsense?"

Never had he been so relieved in his life to hear the Captain’s dulcet tones. "Captain Foley," he gasped, “Captain, please! You've got to listen. The men are walking into a trap. We've got to get out. Bane doesn't want an inspection. He's going to kill you, all of you."

"I've told you before about your wild tales," Foley was scolding him, but even John could tell his heart wasn't in it. He looked drawn in the wan early light, pale and unhealthy. Not exactly surprising, forced occupation could be a difficult situation to bear. Plus, random dawn calls to parade were not the usual run of business. Foley was suspicious, so half the battle was already won.

"No wild tales, sir. There are men armed with crossbows surrounding the courtyard. You walk out there, you're not coming back alive." He held his hands up, "If you still want to go, be my guest. I'm going to try and find a way out of this castle. Gotham isn't safe any longer for those loyal to the king." Addressing the small group gathered around, he finished, "Anyone else who's interested in staying alive can come with me."

The men shot sidelong glances at the Captain. Foley stood motionless, clearly processing through the options. "Follow Blake," he snapped finally. "If he's wrong, I'll see that he alone shoulders the blame."

\--- 

Bane waited in the narrow corridor surrounding the courtyard. Below the soldiers stood to attention. The metal of their buttons shone in the weak autumn sunshine. It was a magnificent sight to see, the strength, the youth, the promise. Bane worked, however, with a grander scheme in mind, and to achieve a great triumph there were many sacrifices to make along the way.

Stepping forwards, he rested his hands on the edge of a low wall. The men gazed up a him, a mixture of apprehension and defiance. "I have summoned you here to discuss the subject of loyalty."

He paused; let them writhe, let them wait. "You are the King's Guard, the most devoted to King Bruce." Bane couldn't help the hate that slipped out at the mention of the king's name. Never had he encountered a man so weak and unfit to rule. "But the king is dead and dead men have no need of foot soldiers. I am giving you all one chance. Demonstrate your allegiance to me, and I may let you live."

The courtyard filled with whispers, murmurs like the breeze through dry leaves. One man somewhere in the middle of the crowd, practical and rather attached to his own hide, shrugged his shoulders. He dropped his left knee to the floor and bowed his head.

Whispers morphed into an angrier noise, the buzzing of bees when their hive is threatened. The soldiers looked between themselves, arguing about whose course of action was right. When finally faced with the opportunity to die in the name of their king, would they walk that path of no return?

Bane waited patiently. A chain reaction bubbled out from the first man to submit. By the time the soldiers finished squirming, Bane suspected around two thirds had abandoned their king to save themselves. Not that any of it mattered. "Your time for decision has run out. Those of you who remain loyal, I commend your bravery. A kingdom and a king are only as strong as the number of men who will pour their blood to support its foundations. Your deaths will be merciful and glorious."

It was true to an extent; Lord Bane _did_ admire fidelity in a man, but that trust needed to be placed correctly. "As for those of you on your knees. Men who switch their allegiance in seconds are worthless to me. Gotham has enough difficulties without having to trouble herself over cowards." Below understanding slowly began to dawn in the men. There was no choice; there had never been a choice. Only some could now die with honour and others with shame their only comfort to the grave.

Bane signalled to his archers.

The storm of arrows did not cease until the echoes of the last scream faded in the crisp, cool air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slightly short update, but this felt like a natural place to pause for the moment. ;_;
> 
> Thank you again for your lovely comments/kudos. They are very much appreciated! =D


	8. Chapter Eight

Panic. Blind panic. That was all John could feel as he ran through the corridors of the castle. There were about twenty men altogether. Where would they go? They couldn't fight their way out. Most of the men were conspicuously dressed in ceremonial uniform. Having escaped the first slaughter, they would just be cut down at Bane's pleasure. He had them trapped like rats in a cage.

A pair of cold hands bodily seized John as he stumbled past another dead end corridor. With a palm firmly pressed against his mouth, he had no time to utter a cry as his assailant slammed him harshly against the rough wall. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of the corridor, so he resorted to instinct. He fought.

An impatient voice ordered, "If you wouldn't mind, Mr Blake. I'd prefer my shin in one piece."

John stopped short. He recognised that tone… The timbre of it was soothing and familiar. The hand against his mouth fell away and John was able to catch his breath. Staggering upright, he found himself face to face with Sir Lucius Fox, personal armourer (and trusted confidante) to the king.

His comrades, having realised Blake was no longer with them, hesitantly returned to crowd in the entrance of the passage way. They reminded John of lost sheep, mostly docile and currently in severe need of a seasoned shepherd.

And they'd ended up with him.

"I apologise for startling you, but there's no time to waste. It's lucky I found you at all." Fox's soft voice drawled ever so slightly, as though it was tinged with just an edge of sarcasm. Privately, John didn't think he sounded all that sorry at all. But he couldn't argue with Fox's comment that time was of the essence.

Turning to the men, John shrugged. In that loose gesture, he communicated a tired resignation to the whim of fortune. Fox might be with them or he might lead them into another trap. At least with him there was the possibility they would survive the day.

Fox lead them swiftly down a passage way Blake would have sworn blind ended in nothing but an empty study. Naturally, he was extremely impressed when Fox stopped five metres short of the final door and pushed a perfectly innocuous piece of rough stone wall with his palm. The entire end of the corridor grumbled to life. Blake stared in total amazement as a square aperture appeared in the floor.

Producing a candle from his pocket, Fox lit it and stepped down into the blackness. From his gradual disappearance, John surmised there must be a staircase leading to a secret area under the castle. Not needing further encouragement, John followed closely on Fox's heels. The tiny candle flame distorted the world around them, turning this underground cave into a fantastic grotto full of shadow monsters.

Jagged rock formations, like gnarled fingers, dripped from the ceiling and bubbled up from the floor. In between these grotesque features, however, John could discern wooden work tables and the glint of steel. They had entered some sort of wizard's workshop, certainly.

Fox closed the trapdoor up after the last man with another hidden, mysterious mechanism. Bunched as they were in the dark, every man breathed a quiet sigh of relief. With the stone covering, they could no longer hear the terrible howls of dying men.

"You're safe for the moment, but time is not in our favour."

John's heart quickened with gratitude for the dark-skinned man. He recalled seeing him walking often with the king, the two of them deep in conversation. King Bruce's armour was famed throughout the country not only for its strength and lightness, but its beauty. In fact, now that John thought about it. Gotham's whole army had a reputation for using reasonably modern, well-designed equipment. In past years, that had been enough to prevent enemies from scenting blood in the water. Was Fox behind the creation of those beautiful objects of destruction that had kept their walls whole for so many years? Blake never dreamed he would be fortunate enough to meet this astonishing creator, certainly a man of genius, never mind in circumstances like this.

Fox busied himself lighting other lamps, revealing rows of weapons - spears, knives, swords, shields. They lined the walls and lay in tiny pieces on the workbenches. Fox observed their gaping mouths with a small smile of pride.

\--- 

"Sir Fox, we owe you our lives," broached Blake, tearing his eyes with difficulty from the elegant weapons.

Fox scoffed. "Much good it will do you if we don't hurry. The queen knows of this chamber and if she knows, it will only be a matter of time before Sheriff Bane demands entrance. I do not think even stone will be enough to keep him out."

John nodded mutely, desperate to appear strong yet searching for guidance. What were they supposed to do now? "There is a passage from here that runs under the castle. It will bring you out on the edges of Arkham Forest. When you're out, find a way to block the passage. You must give yourselves the best start possible." 

Fox began to pace agitatedly down the central corridor. Every so often he would snatch something from the walls and throw it at one of the men. "Take what you need. Take more if it will not slow you down. I cannot bear the thought of my creations in the hands of barbarians. They were never meant to be tools to oppress Gotham's own people."

"What's is this?" John's old partner was peering at a small glass bottle. It seemed black in the dim light, but peering inside you could make out a fine, dull grey powder.

"Easy," warned Fox, gently encouraging the man to take a step back. "That powder is extremely potent, like the powder you put into cannons but stronger. I brought a sample back from the East. The touch of a match and this tiny bottle will provide enough firepower to breach a castle wall." He could not help but laugh when all the soldiers fixed him with incredulous expressions. "It is the truth. In fact, take it with you. This is powerful and must not fall into the wrong hands. Keep it safe. A small amount will be enough to close the tunnel entrance."

One of the men cautiously picked the bottle up. He squeezed his eyes together, as though expecting the motion would be enough to blow them all sky high. Delighted that the deadly powder was for the moment sleeping, the soldiers gained confidence. They spread out across the room, admiring weapons and equipment packs, arming themselves with a view to war for survival in elements unknown.

Blake would have been content to observe their excitement, but Fox steered him away with a firm hand resting on his shoulder. "There's something I want to show you, Mr Blake." By now, John had stopped wondering how people - perfect strangers to him - knew his name. He ended up with nothing but a headache and a lot of unanswered questions.

Fox lead him to an undisturbed table. Upon it rested most beautiful bow John had ever laid eyes on. The dark wood curved seductively, shining lustrously even by candle light. His hand stretched out to caress it instinctively. The bowstring was taught. He had never looked upon an object able to inspire such desire, not even the prettiest serving girl, the most elegant lady at court, or even the muscular power of Bane's physique, could match the lure present in the bow.

The old man watched his reaction keenly. "Originally I thought I was developing this for King Bruce, but now I see I was right to hold back from giving it to him. It had a different master all along." John's dark eyes were feverish with excitement and hope. "Take it," whispered Fox with all the cunning of a devil. John's fingers actually trembled when they wrapped around the rich wood for the first time. It was a paradise in hell.

Fox armed him with a quiver full of arrows, before urging, "Now you must leave. It will not take Bane long to realise he's not succeeded in obliterating the whole regiment. Go through the passage as fast as you can. Do not stop to rest, if you can help it. The forest will offer you protection."

Overcome by a surge of gratitude, John seized the man's cool hand. It was wrinkled, the flesh shrinking and the skin stretching with age. He dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the man's hand. "Thank you," he choked, "but what about you? What will happen if they discover you aided our escape."

"Oh, don't concern yourself about me." Fox's expression was grim, "I'm more use to them alive than dead." He fixed John with a piercing stare, assessing him as only those with the experience of many years lived in hardship can, "You have a difficult task ahead of you; I believe you can rise to the challenge. Remember, no matter how small the victory, it will give people something that cannot be soiled or broken."

"What's that?"

"Hope."

\--- 

Barsad knelt among the neat rows of corpses. He carried with him a long scroll of names. Ordering the men about, he made sure each body was systematically checked for the compulsory identification chain Gotham's soldiers war. Their name was then crossed of the list and the body hoisted onto a waiting cart.

He was certainly glad for the cold. If Bane had ordered this massacre in the summer the smell of the bodies would have been overpowering as the flesh decomposed quicker than they could dispose of them.

It took many hours, but finally he reached the end of his task. Most of the mercenaries left, eager to wash the sticky blood from their hands and strip out of soiled garments. Even for those seasoned with battle and with killing, staring violent death in the face for so long could be unsettling and exhausting. Barsad knew there was a small smattering of red droplets on one side of his face, but he ignored the discomfort. Instead he entered the throne room and walked steadily towards Bane.

The huge man sat silent, brooding on the throne. Clothed in the murky shadow of the Hall, his size seemed all the more monstrous. Only his eyes showed any sign of life as they followed Barsad's path down the centre of the great room.

"The bodies have been identified and removed," confirmed Barsad with no trace of emotion. He shifted only once, but it was a tell Bane knew communicated nervousness despite his neutral facade. "I am bound to report, however, that there are some men unaccounted for."

"Names," barked Bane.

Barsad dutifully recited from the list, convinced that at any moment Bane would stop him in order to make the full extent of his displeasure known. The moment he finished, Bane dismissed him without ceremony. The lieutenant sagged inwardly with relief, venturing even to ask, "You are not angry we did not manage to contain the entire regiment?"

"Angry?" repeated Bane with disbelief. "Angry? No, I am not angry." If Barsad could have seen the twist of his lips beneath the black cloth, he would have been able to witness Bane's deformed version of a smile. "Everything is progressing perfectly."

\--- 

They emerged shortly after sunset. As the winter approached, dusk fell ever more quickly. Standing in a nervous group, the men debated amongst themselves the best course of action. It was Foley's booming voice that eventually drew John into the discussion. He had been contemplating the gloomy aspect presented by Arkham Forest. Somewhere deep amongst the trees the feared Blackgate Prison and attached facility for those of unsound mental condition lay hidden, but that was the sum of his knowledge.

He shuddered and told himself it was purely due to the chill in the damp air.

"We just need to get out of the city," stated Foley with a degree of confidence John found admirable. "Lose the uniform along the way and nobody will know who we are. We'll disappear. Bane's men don't know precisely what we look like."

"So you wish to bury your head in the sand? You'll ignore the vows you made to the king to protect your country?" His time in the tunnel had changed John. He stood in the twilight with narrowed dark eyes and his chin held high, contemplating his Captain as an equal rather than a subordinate. Men he once counted as friends drew back, daunted by this new steely aspect of Blake's personality.

Even Foley thought twice before answering back.

"What else can we do? There are at best twenty men here. What can we hope to achieve against an entire army?"

"If you wish to live as a coward with that shame forever branded on your soul, go ahead. No one need stay with me. The road I choose will be hard and there will probably be no coming back."

"Where are you planning to go," asked one of the men whose eyes were wide as saucers and reminded John of the man he'd shared a room with. He must be dead now. Even the thought of his corpse couldn't shake John from this deadly tranquillity in his soul. The course was clear. All he needed was the courage to steer it.

"I am going into Arkham Forest. Bane's men cannot possibly hunt us down in there; it stretches for acres and he will not have been in it for many years. The tactical advantage will be wholly ours."

The men returned to glancing at each other uncertainly. Foley promised relative safety and comfort. The forest to many was as terrible as the mouth of Hell. Gnarled roots stretched out to them like the fingers of a dying man in their last spasm. Tree trunks yawned up from the earth, dark and imperious. Evergreen in nature, the dense canopy of pines promised nothing but a world of bracken and shadows to those that dared enter.

Many said it must have once been sacred. Other men swore blind wolves still roamed the ground. It was almost certain that on the quietest of nights you could hear the screams of Arkham Asylum's most disturbed inmates. Collectively they shrank back,

Fighting to hide his dismay, John shrugged his shoulders. "Do as you please, but I will find a way to retaliate. I have not yet given up hope on King Bruce and hope can be a beacon to man in the most barren of wildernesses." He was resorting to  Fox's rhetoric, he knew, but John was certain if he could just encourage the men to conquer their fears, they would find shelter in the forest. They were all soldiers, after all. They were trained to survive.

Decisively he strode forwards to where the line of trees began. He heard Foley mutter, "You're insane." He didn't need to turn back to know the man would set off in the opposite direction.

"Hey!" a voice called nervously. "Hey, John, w-wait! I'm coming with you." One of their youngest recruits- a boy John recognised from the monastery orphanage was tripping clumsily over the roots in a bid to catch up.

He was not the only one. The majority, having searched their conscience, knew the way forwards. They would become outlaws, abhorred by their own nation. However, they would also be free, relatively speaking. Gotham was at war and it was the duty of an able-bodied soldier to answer the call and fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truly getting into the Robin Hood territory now!
> 
> Thank you again for such lovely responses! <3


	9. Chapter Nine

For some days Blake directed an operation to establish themselves safely in the forest. They needed to go deep enough so as not to risk Bane's men finding them with laughable ease. Winter was waiting, hungry to envelop the land in ice and snow. They would need provisions for warmth, durable clothing, and whatever conservable food they could find.

John sent men in groups of one or two on missions to more remote villages. The people there had not yet felt the full force of Bane's occupation and they were able, with caution and a wary eye on their own resources, to acquire what they needed. Often, a party of two would return five or more strong. The soldiers were apparently not the only ones with an axe to grind.

At first, these recruits wrung John's conscience. He wondered about the families they left behind, whether they truly understood the sacrifice they were making. When it came down to it, John wasn't sure even he understood and therefore didn't see how he could expect any man who hadn't suffered Bane's banishment to willingly follow. After a second failed attempt to make a new man return, he shrugged his shoulders. If there were willing volunteers to swell the ranks, he should not complain. Instead he gave orders that all civilians must be trained as soon as possible to meet military standards.

With any luck, he could drown his doubts in practicalities. The men were bonding well, encouraged by the fact no one had bothered them in their new refuge. However, the silence that calmed their nerves frayed constantly on John's. Bane must know by now that they were gone, must be watching for any sign of them and plotting his next steps. Although John hated the man's presence, at least that proximity had allowed John to spy, to find out some of these crucial details. Now they were blind.

They talked over options every evening. John made it clear immediately that he was not interested in open warfare. He had not lead these men out into the wild merely to order them to suicide. "How do we strike back then?" asked a gruff peasant tersely. He'd been a village blacksmith, but had left his trade in the hands of an apprentice.

"There is only one way in which we will be able to win against Lord Bane," stated John calmly, as though they hadn't had the same conversation the last three nights running. "Victory will only be achievable with the return of King Bruce."

An awkward pause settled on the clearing. "But," whispered the boy from the orphanage wistfully, "but, John, I thought King Bruce was dead."

John shook his head. "That's all we've been told. This is my plan and it is the only one I am willing to follow. I need volunteers to travel to the Holy Land. We must know for certain whether the king lives and we cannot rely on the testimony of a messenger. Whilst these men conduct their search, the rest of us must distract Lord Bane and his men. We will fight a war of subterfuge and sabotage. We will be the fly constantly pestering the drowsy giant. All the while he is focused on swatting us, he will miss the snake coiling around his feet."

He spoke with such conviction about the king, the men found it difficult to challenge his fool's hope. Blake was undoubtedly the man they wanted as their leader, but he would need time to understand the king was gone. Afterwards they were convinced his mind would shift to other plans. So they humoured him. Two men immediately volunteered to set off on the perilous journey.

Thus the band of outlaws, led by a man who allegedly knew no fear, began to wage a war of attrition, one small victory at a time.

And when a little boy gazed at a full red apple placed in his hands by a man clothed in muddy browns and greens, he babbled gratefully, "Thank you, Mister-"

He trailed off, staring up at John adoringly for guidance. Ruffling the child's mousy hair, Blake chuckled beneath the large hood of his travelling cloak and summoned the name he had been gifted at birth. Before it sat awkwardly upon him, but as the responsibilities of his new role blossomed, the name finally seemed appropriate. A disguise- like the cloak he wore when travelling from village to village - a battle dress like the fabrics that helped him blend into the foliage.

Another mask to swathe around a vigilante.

"Robin. My name is Robin."

\---

A month passed; it was surprising how quickly they fell into a routine of causing small but noticeable havoc. Arkham Forest was so sizeable three of the four main roads into the capital ran through it at some point. Bane doubled the taxes within days of discovering the soldiers' escape and the money had to come into the city somehow.

He announced it was necessary to fund the improvements needed to secure Gotham against its enemies. (Or, as Henry the former blacksmith put it, "He owes his men a pay rise.") They simply saw it as restoring from the odious, lawless mercenaries what rightfully belonged to those in need.

With the Queen out of his protection but safe by all accounts, Blake's attention gradually turned to his second charge: Alfred.

Most of the men who stayed with him were young, so when he asked questions about what life in Gotham seven years ago, they could only shrug. They had been boys like him, interested in nothing more than muddy puddles, wriggling worms, and teasing girls. One man did recall, however, that before he ascended to the throne, King Bruce resided with great joy in his family home. The grounds of this manor allegedly bordered Arkham Forest.

John saddled up for the journey. His men, curious about the secretive venture, planned to escort him as far as a log bridge they had thrown up over a section of particularly fast flowing water. The logs were secured with rope, the idea being that they could be cut with speed, forcing an enemy to either construct their own or find another crossing. Their horses (some bought, some stolen, some commandeered in the name of freedom) did not like the uneven, slippery surface of the quietly rotting wood.

That particular day, John's horse reared up fiercely, refusing to advance any further forwards. Stroking her neck soothingly, the man glanced across at the bridge to see if there was any damage he had missed or signs of wild animals lurking in the surrounding foliage.

John didn't see any gaping fissures or growling wolves, but he did see a friar cloaked in robes of brown. The hem of the garment was wet, suggesting he had been walking for some time through the icy, sludge-ridden forest paths.

Instantly on his guard, John's fingers drifted towards the hilt of his sword. "May I help you, Father?" he asked politely. It could be a trap. Could be anything. It might, of course, just be a monk, but John's luck didn't often work like that and it would be far better to presume the worst.

"I am looking for the man they call Robin." A full hood threw the man's features into shadow, but the voice, hoarse though it was from the biting cold, stirred John's memory to life. It's tone was calm and unassuming.

"And if I said you'd found him?"

"Then I would ask to join his ranks." The man walked with a staff and although John wasn't able to see his face, the fingers of the man's hand were thin, almost skeletal- an unmistakeable sign of age. Blake glanced back at the group crowding behind him, jostling each other out of the way to get a better view. If he could prevent it, he would not drag another man to suffer the hardships of life in a wintry forest. He would not be responsible for sending a man entitled to a few years' peace at the end of his life to an early grave.

"Father, we are criminals, robbers. I do not think you will be able to balance our actions with the demands upon your conscience to live a blameless life."

Thumping one end of the staff on a thick log, the man accused shrewdly, "You think I am old and therefore weak. You think I have nothing to offer you?" John opened his mouth to protest, but the monk did not allow him the opportunity. "I will make a deal with you, Robin Hood. You wish to cross this bridge, yes? Well, we will fight. If you win, your prize will be safe passage."

"And if I don’t win?"

"You allow me to join your men."

\---

Silently John debated the options before him. It sounded like a reasonable enough deal. He couldn't imagine what kind of opposition the monk could offer, but it surely would be manageable… Alternatively, he could walk away and leave the cantankerous old man, but getting to the next manageable crossing point would waste the better part of the day.

He turned back to the monk, "The deal is fair and I accept. Name your weapon."

"I believe in fighting with whatever you have to hand, and all I have is my walking staff."

"Sticks it is, then," announced John, watching as one or two of his men scurried around the clearing bordering the bridge. They were searching for a staff of agreeable length and thickness. It took a surprisingly long time to find something even vaguely passable, but finally he was ready. He stood on the bridge with the friar, still trying to work out why the man seemed so familiar.

Three blows in and John realised he'd bitten off more than he could chew. He'd been practising with many weapons, but staffs hadn't been one of them. The man opposite, however, was brutal and uncompromising.

The result was short and humiliating. The monk sent Blake tumbling into the river and while he surfaced spluttering and watching his dignity float away with the current, his men howled with genial laughter. John's old anger started to simmer; he had men to inspire and could have done without a priest, of all things, making him look pathetic.

Lowering himself to his knees, the monk stretched out a hand to help John out of the water. As he did so, the hood fell back to reveal the king's confessor. Blake now added stupidity to his list of dubious qualities to be addressed - he should have recognised the man instantly. Clearly he had become complacent in their small successes.

As he sat dripping on the bridge, one of his men (more of a boy, really, as enthusiastic as he was covered in that curse of adolescents - spots) cried out, "Hey! I know you. You're Father Gordon - my dad used to talk about you all the time!" He chattered excitedly away to the others, proclaiming it was the moustache that gave it away, you know. The shape of it was very distinctive.

Father… Gordon? Memories shifted in John's head. _He'd_ heard stories about this man as well only under a different name. "Gordon… Gordon? As in Captain Gordon, the man Foley replaced as Captain of the King's Guards?"

The old man settled himself beside John, the pair of them with their legs dangling over the bridge. "I've not been addressed as Captain Gordon for many years now." He was smiling the smile of the old as they recall the incidents of their youth, smoothed and polished by the memory.

"Most of the older guys said they didn't know why you left. The stories they used to tell about you and King Bruce…"

"I am a soldier for wartime, John. When King Bruce finally brought peace to the kingdom, I knew I was duty bound to resign my commission. The passing generation must eventually step aside to let the young ones in."

"And after you left… you became a priest?"

"When I left the army, I discovered my wife had left me and taken my children with her. My king no longer had need of me. I had to find a profession that gave purpose and offered an antidote to despair."

"But we are at war now,” stated John miserably, pulling off his tunic in order to wring the excess water out. He shivered. The stream was freezing and he was lucky it hadn't already frozen over.

"Yes, we are," agreed Gordon. "And I have come to fight. It is now a point of honour that you let me join or others will start to question the value of your word."

"You could have just shown your face," John accused morosely. "What would you have done if I'd beaten you?"

"You were never going to win, son." He held up his hand when John looked like he was about to explode with indignation. "I was teaching you a lesson. You thought I was weak - an easy fight. After your little swim, I doubt you'll make the same mistake again. I've told you before about the follies of youth."

Father Gordon carefully helped John to his feet, noting with concern the violent shivers racking his body. "Do any of you men have a dry cloak to spare?" One was thrown in their direction and Gordon caught it deftly.

As he wrapped the heavy fabric around John's pale shoulders he murmured, "Besides. I don't think you or your men should be journeying anywhere today. This morning Bane's men opened the gates of Blackgate Prison; all the guards are dead and the forest is swarming with Gotham's most dangerous convicts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your lovely, encouraging responses! We've launched fully into Robin Hood!territory now. =)


	10. Chapter Ten

It took a fortnight to perfect their defences against lone convicts or larger groups who'd bunched together into roving, insatiable gangs. Father Gordon explained that Bane hoped it would flush out the outlaws in the forest, or at least make their position untenable. But Blake's men had been in the trees for some time now and were adapting to the ways of the forest. They could move in relative silence and hear the clumsy tread of a convict from metres away.

They picked them off as best they could, but Blackgate Prison had housed close to eight hundred inmates. When they went to drop off food and money to the villages on the outskirts of the forest, the people there told them terrible stories about what the men had done. The robberies, the murders, the rapes. John was furious. Lord Bane was letting reprobates poison Gotham from the inside.

He'd also closed the borders; no one could escape and no other nation could come in to help. The people of Gotham were fish caught in a net, swimming helplessly as they awaited the final, fatal pull upwards to the sky.

John was still aware, however, that he was duty bound to visit King Bruce's ancestral home. He feared for what had become of the old manservant and the property itself. Many nobles loyal to the king were being evicted from their homes or having them ransacked and destroyed. Reports varied, sometimes it was the convicts, others Bane's own men (a claim the Sheriff assiduously denied, of course). One thing was certain, Gotham was starting to tremble in its foundations.

Time was running out.

Saddling up, John left his men distributing what help they could in the village closest to the ancient Wayne Manor. He left just enough information with his second to locate him in an absolute emergency, before racing along the outskirts of the forest. Instinctive though his fears were, they quickly proved accurate. He could see the plume of smoke rising from miles away.

Blake left his horse tethered on the edge of the forest. They had subdued Bane's guards in the village they were working, so John hoped he would not run the risk of being disturbed. He approached the once commanding property on foot, taking in the magnitude of the destruction in silent awe.

The manor had been constructed from a rich almost ochre-coloured stone. He recalled once seeing a print of it in a book housed in the king's library. A beautiful building in its time with great mullioned glass windows that must have flashed magnificently in the sun, it was now nothing more than a shell. Empty skeletal remains. Fires must still be burning inside, because two separate clouds of smoke were tumbling merrily from holes in the roof.

John ventured closer across unkempt grass; he realised with a start these must once have been pristine lawns, tended to and nurtured.

He'd not gone far when he felt the unmistakeable point of a sword jab between his shoulder blades.

"If you've come to try your luck, you're wasting your time. They took everything the first time round and the fire's had the rest."

\---

Blake raised his hands high into the air, "I'm not here to thieve. My name is John Blake, I am a member of the King's Guard and I am looking for a man called Alfred."

"The king," choked the voice bitterly, "is dead and the King's Guard were summarily executed many weeks ago."

Aware that he was dead if he didn't win the stranger's trust very quickly, John changed tack, "Then my name is Robin; I believe people refer to me as Robin Hood. I am here to carry out a personal request on behalf of his Majesty, King Bruce."

The point of the sword faltered slightly, " _You're_ Robin Hood?" John wasn't totally flattered by the incredulity in his voice. It was the kind of tone people usually reserved for the moment they looked him up and down before saying, 'Funny, I thought you'd be taller.'

"Why, you're nothing more than a boy." See? John could see that one coming a mile off. But it seemed to have done the trick. The sword tip was no longer being pushed quite so forcefully against his spine.

"Could I turn around, sir? If you know about this property and its occupants, I would appreciate the opportunity to talk to you."

"It's not safe in the middle of open spaces like this. The men haven't been back for a few days, but they do come. I think they like to make themselves sick gloating, knowing they've destroyed something so dear to the king. You'd better follow me."

John walked behind the man, observing his snow white hair and thinking on the emotional tremor in his voice as he spoke of the king and of the irreparable damage. The old man's voice had a strange lilt to it, quite a jarring sound in the vowels that identified him as a foreigner in these lands. They reached a dilapidated tiny cottage tucked into a small corner of the grounds. It was so overgrown with weeds and the thatch of the roof in such disrepair, it didn't look habitable. "You'll have to forgive the condition," the man said, as though reading John's mind. "I've not been back long and repairs take time."

When they were both settled on careworn chairs and a kettle whistling on a small fire, John was able to look properly at the old man. His face bore an expression of painful sadness, as though there were no force on earth that could lift his features into a smile again. "I apologise if I alarmed you," said John softly. "Before he left for the Holy Land, the king asked me to look in on a man named Alfred. I should have come long before now, but-"

"But you've been busy risking your life as an outlaw," the man sounded faintly disapproving, like John imagined his grandfather would sound if he'd ever had chance to meet him. "Why should the king have troubled himself with an old man he doesn't care to speak to any more, not even a letter, nothing."

"He would have come himself to make reconciliations, but he left in a hurry."

"And you spoke to him personally before he went?"

"I was begging him not to go even as he walked out of the castle doors."

"Well," said the man, busying himself making tea, "you can rest easy, Master Blake. I'm the man you seek; I've looked after King Bruce and his family for many years."

"What happened here?" asked John, overcome again by the horror of the gutted building.

Alfred shrugged, a gesture he somehow managed to make both coarse and elegant, "I couldn't tell you exactly. King Bruce and I experienced a difference of opinions and I went away to travel. I'm sure you'll have realised by now that I am not native to Gotham. I returned only two weeks ago. The fire was raging more fiercely, of course." Alfred described the situation with a neutral tone, clearly attempting to disguise the effect it had had upon him. He couldn't hide the way his hands trembled when he rose to remove the kettle from the fire, steam issuing with vigour from its thin spout.

"It was lucky you weren't here; I'm sure Lord Bane's men would have killed you."

"I expect they would have," but Alfred didn't speak the words like a man deeply attached to life.

"This cottage won't be enough protection to see you through winter. I'm sure some of my men could come and help to put it to rights. At least here you should be able to live undisturbed. I will try to visit more often, if that would be agreeable to you?"

"You know, you remind me of him," said Alfred thoughtfully. "In his younger days. He had the same energy, that fire in his eyes. He thought it was his duty to put the whole world to rights.

"I buried his parents. I've been to the funerals of more members of his family than he has and I swore, I _swore_ I wouldn't bury him. And look at how he's repaid my years of service. Murdered in a foreign country, so I don't even have a coffin to watch lowered into the ground. How thoughtful of him to find a way to die so that I wouldn't have to break my vow. Heroes and martyrs are all well and good, Master Blake, but they never spare a thought for the old men they leave behind."

\---

John's mind was in a state of turmoil as he began his ride back to the village. Alfred's obvious grief compounded his sense of guilt for not having tried harder to reach him before. It had also brought painfully to mind his own despair at losing the king. Inside the forest and faced with the day to day battle to survive, it had been easy to push the sadness and the anger to the side, to focus instead on the day to day practicalities. He was so wrapped up in thoughts of how he would set about improving Alfred's dilapidated cottage as a first try to ameliorate his failure, he missed the point when three riders emerged one after the other from dark coppices along the lonely road.

It was the sound of hoof beats that finally roused his attention. He glanced back at the three imperious figures robed in billowing black and paled immediately. There must have been a spy watching Wayne Manor, that was the only way he could have been spotted so quickly.

Spurring his horse on, John tried to abate his panic. They were not too far from a familiar tree line. Blake was willing to bet he knew the paths in the woods better than the men following him. If he could just get under the cover of the trees… He bent at the waist, eager to encourage his horse forwards. The movement proved fortuitous, as an arrow almost immediately whistled past his ear.

Trusting his horse to race for the forest, John drew the bow he carried with him from his shoulder and pulled an arrow from the quiver. He risked turning back once to face his opponents, but the speed at which they were running almost immediately sent him tumbling to the ground. He didn't want to risk shooting now.

Three or four more arrows zipped his way, only to lodge themselves in the trees and dusty path. John was lucky they weren't better shots; a skilled marksman would have taken him down by now. Just as his horse broke through the line of trees, however, his luck ran out. An arrow grazed across the side of his thigh, causing him to cry out more in shock than pain.

Another sank into the flank of his horse, sending it rearing up onto its hind legs. Highly distressed, the animal threw John from its back and careered wildly down a narrow forest track. Blake lay on the ground stunned by the impact. Vaguely he could feel the pounding hooves of his pursuers; he had to find the strength to move.

Adrenaline proved invaluable; he barely felt pain as his half-limped, half-ran through the undergrowth. All he needed was a tree to climb or a good vantage point, he'd show these men how a bow and arrow ought to be used.

\---

Some hours later, Bane knelt down over the body of one of his men. A single arrow lodged in his chest, directly in line with his heart. Even Bane had to admit that such an accurate shot amid dense forestation was impressive. Potentially too impressive. The first man had been felled by an arrow to the throat and the second had taken two chest wounds.

It was the skilled marksmanship that betrayed their killer. There couldn't be more than a handful of men capable of that accuracy in the kingdom and only one of those had reason to seek shelter in this miserable patch of woodland.

Robin John Blake. The name rolled around in his mind in the empty hours of the night. Robin Hood, illegal inhabitant of Arkham Forest, beloved outlaw of the people of Gotham. The man, people whispered, who wore a thousand faces beneath his dark green cloak. Bane scoffed. Desperate people would cling onto the most pathetic of rafts to keep from slipping under.

No, Robin John Blake had one face. Bane knew it, knew what it looked like when contorted in fear and pain. The boy was leading them a merry game and the thrill of the chase ignited a throb of forgotten excitement in his veins. It had been a long time since he had something so bright and fresh to crush. But perhaps he was allowing his self-indulgence to impair his judgement. Two of these corpses had once been men he'd almost liked and certainly trusted to follow orders.

Straightening up, he turned to Barsad, "I want you to find out everything you can about a man called John Blake."

Barsad frowned, "Wasn't he one of the King's Guards who escaped?"

Ignoring his question, Bane stalked towards his waiting horse. "I want to know what he loves and what he fears. I tire of these petty tricks. It is time to destroy this pitiful resistance." The bracken on the floor absorbed the sound of his horse's hooves and but for the call of unseen woodland birds, he would almost doubt another creature lived and breathed in the confines of the forest, so heavy and so thick the air.

But he was sure deep within the pines, something stirred.

"Today, _Robin_ , I will let you run.“ he called, his tone poisoned by the taunt. "We will soon see whether you have the sense to fold before the stakes become too high."

An answering arrow sliced into the trunk of a tall fir, just as Bane rode passed towards open country and pale winter sunshine. The weapon travelled with such force, Bane could hear the splinters of bark tumble to the ground, dislodged by the power of impact. At first, he thought Blake's usually immaculate aim had failed him. Gradually, however, he became aware of a damp sensation on his cheek and upper lip. He pressed his palm against one side of his face, pulling it away to reveal a puddle of scarlet.

The whelp had cut his cheek.

Barsad, the direction from which the arrow had flown memorised, made to turn his horse about in order to pursue the unseen assailant, but Bane held up a hand. If they went further in, there would be nothing to stop Blake picking more of his men off. Besides, Bane wanted his capture to be something much more spectacular, much more public than a confused scrap in the forest. For the moment, this territory gave the boy an advantage. Bane was many things, but impatient and hasty were not qualities he embraced. No, better to watch, better to wait.

His large chest heaved with that same mixture of humour and irritation. He thought of the brief memories he'd gathered of rich dark hair and brown eyes. The boy was like a colt running wild. Most would shy from its spirited behaviour, unwilling to risk the potency of its kick. Bane's experience told him even the fiercest of spirits could be broken and in his hands it would become not only inevitable, but a work of art.

John Blake would weep for mercy at his feet before the end.

\---

Blake's wound, though it only scored through muscle, did not heal as quickly as he would have liked. With their limited diet and access to medicines, there had been a worrying period where it appeared he would succumb to infection. But John was nothing if not a fighter. He had too much to achieve to be felled by sickness in winter.

Though he clearly needed to rest, he insisted on resuming his missions as soon as he could run. Gordon would strip the bloodied bandages from his leg every night. He never reproached John, but his disapproval didn't need to be verbalised.

The monk was helping him change a dressing one day in the middle of January. Their lookout - a kid from the St Swithin's called Mark - tumbled excitedly into the clearing they used as a base.

"Hey, Robin! Robin! There's a posh carriage coming through the forest. They're going so slowly they must be carrying something heavy. I bet its tax money." Mark pressed his fingers to his face, literally unable to control how pleased he was with his lucrative discovery, his imagination now running wild with the potentially riches to be won.

Mark was practically dancing around the two of them in his excitement. John had long given up on persuading the men to address him by his old name, but Mark took a particular shine to him and had been one of the first to start using 'Robin' as his given identity. They'd discovered that one of Bane's earliest victims - a body that tumbled out of the sewers - belonged to his older brother. Mark found in John a new figure to idolise, an object he could contemplate with joy to cancel out the maw of grief.

"You get a clear look inside?" asked John, wincing as Gordon tightened the new dressing more than strictly necessary.

"Sure did. Two ladies. I bet we could take them. They're dressed proper nicely in fur and everything."

John snatched his bow from the grass and spared Father Gordon a shrug as if to say 'what else can I do?' "Let's go and make their acquaintance. They must be desperate to reach Gotham if they've opted for a forest road. You sure they haven't got any guards with them?"

Mark skipped after Blake, almost catching his feet on the man's heels. "It's just them, I swear. I've been watching them for ages. It'll be a piece of cake."

And that was the last time John ever trusted Mark's judgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. =( What trouble will John find his way into next? Also, poor Alfred. ;_;
> 
> Thank you, as always, for sticking with me and for your, lovely positive comments/kudos. It is very much appreciated. <3


	11. Chapter Eleven

"What," snapped a woman's voice, "is going on?"

In the absence of time, John's men opted to use the old fallen tree ruse to force the carriage to a stop. If they were stupid enough to take the road through the forest, they could only expect so much.

The smart navy door opened briskly to reveal one of the most beautiful women John would ever lay eyes on. Her chestnut hair fell straight down her back in glinting sheaves. Her skin was so pale it could have blended with the fresh snow. The arch of her eyebrow, however, would have wilted better men than John and made the Arctic seem paradisical.

"We're being robbed, my Lady," responded the driver dryly. John appreciated a man who could keep a sense of humour in the face of disaster. His men had the carriage surrounded - not that it could go anywhere with the heap of rotting wood blocking the road to safety.

Just because necessity forced him to resort to basic criminal practices, didn't mean John forgot his manners. Assuring himself that several bows remained trained on their victims, he lowered his own and ventured closer to the coach. He offered the woman his hand in order that she might descend. Although the lady took it, John felt himself buffeted by the most piercing stare. For all her beauty, the woman had a cruel mouth. Those lips probably haunted the dreams of many a scorned, spurned lover.

Another small girl followed, presumably a servant. She stuck her nose in the air when John offered aid for a second time, announcing, "I am perfectly able to walk down three steps on my own, thank you."

Retrospectively, Blake felt he ought to have started recalculating the threat they posed about then. Hindsight, however, truly is a wonderful thing and surely wouldn't retain its miraculous properties if it could be of any use.

Once the women were safely on the ground, three of John's men clambered inside to examine the cargo. A whoop of delight suggested success. "We got a bona fide tax chest in here, Robin!" called one through a gap in the window. "She work for Bane, or something?"

"She does!" exclaimed another suddenly. "I've seen her before round the castle."

The woman smiled, a curious curl of facial muscles that suggested she was silently laughing at all of them. "'Work for,' is a little strong."

"Then how would you describe it?"

"I prefer to say that we're… associated."

Really, her timing was immaculate. Even if John wanted to be bitter about the subsequent events; he couldn't. She was due as much admiration as his wounded pride would afford. Waiting until the three men in the coach were busy with lifting the heavy chest out, she took her chance. Blake didn't even see the small knife released from the inside of her sleeve until it was resting at his throat.

One of her slim arms wrapped tightly around his chin, betraying a formidable strength. Yanking his head to one side, she whispered sensuously in his ear, "For someone who's built his reputation as a thief, you're not very good at robbing people. Or did you think it would be easy because I'm a woman?" Words failed John. Her voice was so low it was indecent, sounding less human and more like a satisfied purr.

"Alright, boys," she addressed them coolly. "You put the chest back and move the woodwork installation and I won't cut his throat."

"Robin?" one asked hesitantly.

"Do as she says." Mostly John wanted time to think. He needed to concentrate because there was something about this woman and her audacious confidence in the face of danger. All at once, a memory hit him like a sack of flour. The haughty curve of her eyebrow and the mischievous glint in her eyes. He'd seen that before!

"Hey, don't I know you? You're the woman who stole the pearl necklace from King Bruce, right? Wasn't your name Selina or something?"

She dug the knife a little deeper, "That's _Lady Kyle_ to you; I've been promoted. Here I was thinking you were such a polite boy." John fancied she was trying for nonchalance, but it didn't quite ring true.

\---

"I remember that evening. We chased you through the castle for hours. How'd you manage to escape in the end?"

The majority of his men were engaged in rolling the tree trunk out of the road. (They had cunningly divided it into pieces to allow for swift assembly in times of need. Fortunately, it worked the other way as well.) Lady Kyle didn't respond and a quick glance up told John she was monitoring the proceedings like a hawk. She must be anxious to get away.

Undeterred by her silence, he tried again. "If you're Lady Kyle now, you must be in league with Bane. He offering you something, or was the rise up the ranks it?"

"Who says I can be bought. Perhaps I like what he stands for, what he's trying to do."

"He's a tyrant who butchers innocent people."

"Oh, Robin," her mouth was back close now, breath warm against his ear. She tucked him against her body for security, allowing him to brush with almost outrageous indecency against the soft velvet of her dress. He could feel every curve of her body pressed against his back. "You don't understand. He's more than a murderer; he's brought a storm to Gotham and you can be sure you won't recognise whatever emerges from the other side."

John knew he should listen to the warning, knew that the bite of steel against his throat and the poison in his ear ought to be enough to wake him from his stupor. But his mind closed down. Unable at that moment to process any further confusion, grief, or pain, he murmured the only question he'd never dared to ask so bluntly before. "Is he dead?"

"Who?"

"You know who. The king. Is he dead?"

John wasn't sure he expected an answer, but he got one anyway. "I don't know." Selina spoke so frankly and with such a hint of regret, Blake couldn't help but believe her. "In this business, you don't ask questions. Knowing more than you should brings you nothing but trouble."

"Do you know what happened to him?"

"All I can tell you is this: after he was banished, rumour says Bane spent many years out east. If that's true, the Holy Land is his playground. Now you tell me something, Robin Hood," she murmured his name like a mother chiding a naughty child. John's cheeks flamed red, although he couldn't explain where the embarrassment came from. "From what you've seen of him, do you think Bane is the type of man to allow his enemies a merciful escape like death?"

John opened his mouth to voice further queries, when Father Gordon called, "Alright, Lady Kyle. The road is clear. Keep your end of the deal and let him go."

Blake had had enough of this standoff. If the woman was going to kill him, she would have done it by now. John knew she was certainly capable of murder without remorse. "You let me go, and I’ll tell them to stand down."

"And why would you do that? I could take you with me as security."

"I don't believe you want to hurt me. You're better than that, better than him."

He was prepared when Kyle roughly shoved him forwards, adding extra force by delivering a sharp kick to his lower back. She didn't have time, however, to regain the carriage and lock its door shut. John slammed a hand either side of the doorframe. "Whatever Bane's offering, I swear the king will match it. If it's power or wealth or land. Name your price."

Blake thought she might smash at his hands, but instead Selina twined her slender fingers in the front of his shirt, half-dragging him inside. "Do you think me so envious of riches, Robin Hood? I can steal riches. I could have land, if I chose. Material objects have long lost their lustre; all I desire is a fresh start.

"There are crimes stacked up against my name and face in many different nations, in more countries than you can dream exist. I want a pardon and a promise that I can live safely and undisturbed in Gotham. You tell me, do you think your noble king will so easily forgive a criminal. Especially one who stole a prized possession belonging to his mother?"

John hesitated, finding breathing problematic in his current predicament. "Go back to Bane, if you like. But when your usefulness expires, don't think he won't hesitate to kill you like the rest. It was impressive," he said on a seemingly unrelated note, "how you disappeared that night. But there's something you should know. We _were_ looking for you, but the king personally ordered us not to look too hard."

Digging his thumb into a pressure point in her wrist, John forced the woman to release her vice-like grip. Tumbling back to the hard, frozen ground, he stared up at the carriage as it stirred back to life. The last memory he had was of a face so pale it could belong to a ghost, staring back out at him, conflict edged where once confidence reigned supreme.

\---

"Do you swear you will be able to secure a pardon?"

There was no preamble. Lady Kyle all but marched up to John, shaking off the men and blindfold that had accompanied her journey into the forest. Her lips were pressed very tightly together. John understood instantly how much this turn of conscience must be troubling her. If Bane got wind of her actions, she would be hunted down without remorse.

"If the king is alive, I will do all I can to ensure it."

"You need to understand," she slammed her hands down on the rough plank of wood they periodically used as a table, "that if you don’t make good on this promise; I will kill you."

Blake gazed up at the woman, aflame with admiration. Her past attributed an intriguingly murky quality to a soul that obviously burned with a desire to escape such sin and pollution. She was strong, so strong. God help the man who found himself the object of her affections.

"You have my word, Lady Kyle. I know that is not much, but I trust you recognise me as an honourable man."

She paused a moment, as if seeing her surroundings for the first time. Once again, John caught the flicker of a smile in the corner of her mouth. Objectively, he could almost see what they must look like in her eyes. She breathed criminal sophistication and here they were, playing hide and seek like children in the forest.

"What have you done about King Bruce?"

"I sent men to the Holy Land many weeks ago, but we've heard nothing from them since."

"Of course not. Weren't you listening to me? Bane knows the East; he'll have spies everywhere. You can't just send anyone, you need to send the best you've got."

John stared up at her, feeling for the first time vaguely helpless. He wanted so badly to trust her words, to trust the encouraging suggestion that Bane would prefer elongated torture to removing his enemies swiftly and finally. But she fraternised with the Sheriff. She'd stolen without a second thought from the King of Gotham himself. This woman who ran with the shadows and seduced with the wryest of smiles was slippery and dangerous.

His men already bristled with distrust around her and now she was asking him to sacrifice his best?

He couldn't blame them for fearing this was all an elaborate trick.

So Blake turned as he always did in times of crisis- to his gut instinct. No one else saw Kyle's expression as that carriage pulled away, as she understood that King Bruce hadn't seriously wanted her punished for such a flagrant transgression. Perhaps he was naïve to believe consciences and allegiance could change so swiftly, but Blake wasn't sure it actually was a switch.

Selina Kyle struck him as a woman who had experienced much of life's bitterness and cruelty. He couldn't blame her for the disenchantment burning in her soul; her offer of support to Bane likely more to do with the simple matter of survival than anything else. He couldn't chastise the roll her eyes would undoubtedly make at the mention of concepts like 'honour' and 'duty'. He supposed part of him must fear her bravery; she alone among them was willing to stare hypocrisy in the face and demonstrate to the world around the ridiculous rules they tacitly allowed to govern their lives, their dreams.

Father Gordon must have sensed John's trouble. He sat, as always, just to his right. To all, it appeared as though Blake must be the voice of authority. But John would always consult and defer to the wisdom of the priest. If he told Blake a plan was foolish, he abandoned it. If he told him not to risk riding into a certain town, John listened. They argued, of course, fervour coexisting with caution as easily as oil with vinegar.

But John had no desire to tumble head first into any more frozen streams. 'Lesson learned,' he would smile at Gordon in private and the old man would respond with a fond nod and a clap on the shoulder.

He was the only man who refused to supplant 'Robin' for 'John'. At first John was simply grateful, but later he realised Father Gordon wasn't just being polite. To all the others, 'Robin' was a symbol of heroism, of dashing bravery able to battle and overcome the odds. He was their saviour.

But he wasn't Father Gordon’s saviour.

If anything, he owed much of his continued success to the guidance of the man who brought with him so many years of military experience and worldly wisdom.

So when the old man held his hands up for silence, John was not expecting the first words out of his mouth to be, "I'll go."

\---

Many of the men immediately expressed dismay. Even John turned aghast, crying out, "No, you can't-" He stopped just short of admitting 'I need you here,' but the sentiment hung plainly understood in the air.

Selina, unmoved by the poignancy of the sacrifice, raised an unimpressed eyebrow into a perfect arch. "Really? You?"

"Trust me," supplied John, "he can take care of himself."

"I'll go," continued Father Gordon, as though oblivious to all other words, "if Lady Kyle consents to accompany me."

Selina shrugged, a curiously loose movement that focused every make pair of eyes on the winning curves of her body. "Are you sure that's wise? Aren't you frightened I might betray you?"

The steel in Gordon’s gaze was an uncompromising challenge, demonstrating with perfect clarity he was immune to her beguiling charms. Repeating Blake's earlier words, he stated, "I can take care of myself."

"Fortunately for you, I've been looking to skip town. Our little tête-à-tête the other day didn't go unnoticed."

"What happened?" asked John in alarm.

"My driver tried to blackmail me. I slit his throat before he got chance to blab, but someone will notice he's gone." A shiver ran around the clearing. Selina merely patted her hair, affecting to ascertain it was still in place. "If we're going to leave, I want out tonight. You lot get us safely through the forest and I'll sweet talk us over the border."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Selina Kyle... As if John needed any more trouble to keep him on his toes. ;)
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your lovely, positive feedback! <3


	12. Chapter Twelve

The time for final goodbyes came much sooner that John wanted. He stood with Father Gordon in pale dawn light, watching the misty figures of two ladies on horseback pick their way towards them through the uneven tree roots.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Father? There's still time to change plans; I could-"

"They need you here, John. If you left, this movement would falter and for the moment it is the only force sustaining the hope of the oppressed."

"All the same, I'll-" he sucked in a breath of frigid air, watching the vapour drift away as he exhaled uneasily. "I'll miss you."

Lady Kyle was closer now and John could see the second figure was the same girl who'd accompanied her the day they'd tried to rob the coach. Naturally loud, her voice carried quickly to them through the still, chilly air. " _He's_ the one coming with us? Are you sure he'll even live long enough to make it to the border?"

If Selina replied, neither man heard it. John gripped Father Gordon's hand as he moved to mount his horse.

"You'll be alright, son."

"I'll hold the fort here for as long as you need, but if you can get information to us-"

"I know, John." He patted the young man's hand gently, encouraging him to loosen his hold the horse's bridle. The time had come for parting and Gordon could read the fear in Blake's gaze, could see the boy inside peering out through dark lashes. Only a fool could have missed the way John idolised his glorious,martial past, the way he thought Gordon's advice sacrosanct and must always carry most weight in a debate. Yet Gordon knew the band of men would fragment if their leader departed, so he would have to go instead. "You stay strong here and we'll sort this mess out."

Selina in this time had approached to within hearing distance. At the sound of Gordon's empty reassurance, she emitted a soft, hollow laugh. "You really think he can stay strong? Can you keep your men together when their families stand on the gallows? Because Bane is about to unleash such a firestorm that no tree in this forest will be left unscathed. He'll smoke you out like rats from the undergrowth. He's coming for your men; he's coming for _you_."

Her dark eyes settled on John, with wide pupils and a penetrating understanding of the humiliated flush that crept up his neck. He felt like she could see him stripped bare, could see the memories he'd tried so desperately to bury of being crushed against a larger body, the oddly cultured voice putting a price on his honour. Her face expressed no judgement, however, only pity, which John felt to be so much worse.

As the horses began to move onwards, John was left standing alone. Single flakes of snow drifted through the thick fir trees, catching on the fibres of his clothes and settling in stark contrast on his dark hair.

John wanted to believe Father Gordon was right when he said everything would work out, but, of the two prophecies, he always knew Lady Kyle's words would prove true first.

\---

The initial days passed morosely, with John on edge as he tried to summon Father Gordon's voice in his head when making decisions. Eventually, he began to count the man's absence in weeks and then months. He learned that conjuring ghosts would only exhaust him. Two months in and, in the absence of any major catastrophes, he began to relax, trusting his own judgement and the quality of Father Gordon's teaching.

Maybe he could pull his men through this after all.

Although a frosty bite lingered in the air, there were signs that spring was approaching. When they ventured out of the forest, one or two of the men excitedly pointed out the appearance of snowdrops and then crocuses - the first heralds that winter's power was on the wane. They were sat around a rectangle of wood, discussing the installation of mad Doctor Crane as head of the courts. It made a mockery of the whole judicial process and a steady stream of innocents were headed for the gallows, or more creative, utterly horrible fates, under his command.

Their debate halted mid flow when Mark - who'd somehow contrived to grow two inches even through a winter in which he was woefully underfed - barrelled into the clearing. His face was red with excitement.

"Hey, Robin! Guess what! I was listening to these old ladies talk by the village well and they were saying Queen Miranda is holding an archery competition. It's open to the whole country and the prize is a Golden Arrow. I bet you could win it blindfolded. You should enter in disguise and steal the competition _and_ the prize from under Lord Bane's nose."

Blake stared at the boy blankly, "That, Mark, is the worst idea I've ever heard."

It took some time to encourage Mark to see that risking his life for the sake of an exceedingly dubious competition was reckless. Mark couldn't quite understand why Blake would refuse this chance to humiliate his enemies. " _But it's Queen Miranda, Robin… Maybe she's trying to find a way to rebel against Lord Bane?”"_ Of course, Mark. Or perhaps it was a less than canny ruse to lure one of Gotham's best archers into a rat trap.

At any rate, once Mark had calmed down and been soothed with promises that John would give him an archery lesson tomorrow, the men were about to return to planning how best to aid the victims of the bloodthirsty Crane.

They were interrupted for a second time when a rugged man who went by the name of Will appeared through a gap in the trees, dragging another with him. The man was blindfolded, but John could tell from the grotesque aspect of his lolling mouth that he was thoroughly distressed, perhaps heading towards madness. He wore the garb of a priest and for a single moment, John's thoughts leapt to Gordon and he feared the worst.

"I- I found him wandering around in the woods, babbling about Robin Hood. I think he's taken a terrible shock and I didn't know what else to do. If I left him, he'd probably have been murdered by the cons."

John nodded, his throat dry. Cautiously he approached the stranger, unwinding the blindfold from his eyes with great gentleness. "Father Reilly!" he exclaimed, unprepared to meet such a familiar face. Turning to his men, he called, "Quick- someone get him water and a seat."

"John!" gasped the man in confusion, clutching at his supporter's forearms. "John? Is that you, my boy? Heaven only knows, I'm glad to see you. Oh, John. Something terrible has happened. The boys. My boys. Oh, Lord, help me. Robin. I need to find Robin Hood."

Blake carefully eased Father Reilly down onto a log, settling him so that he could rest against a tree trunk. They pressed skin full of water into his hand and John begged him to calm himself down so that he could tell them from the beginning what had happened. All the while John's heart beat thickly in his throat. Seeing Father Reilly here, in this forsaken forest was all wrong. John associated the old man with sun-faded fabrics, the muted sound of church bells, the fond frown he couldn't hide even when scolding a naughty boy.

As the head of one of Gotham's most respectable (but horrendously poor) orphanages, Father Reilly had been (before Gordon) the closest thing to a real parent John had known. Given his position, John could only assume the Father's pained references to 'the boys' meant his current charges.

But what about them exactly? The suspicion that they were dead would not stop tormenting him.

Finally, Father Reilly composed himself sufficiently to begin. "It happened at dawn this morning. Oh, God protect them. Lord Bane's men stormed the orphanage. They rounded up all the boys and then once they'd forced me to admit they were all there, threw me out onto the street. When I tried to get back in, I- there were soldiers and watchmen posted on every door, at every window, even the entrance to the cellar. I couldn't get back. They said they'd kill me if I tried again. They must be so frightened, John, and I couldn't get to them."

He shuddered in horror at the small faces he'd seen pressed white against the windows. "Their threats were meaningless. I threw myself at one of the soldiers on the door. He drew his sword and I'm quite sure would have killed me as he promised when Lord Bane himself arrived and told him to stop. He said that if I wanted to help the boys, I needed to carry a message for him. That's why I need to find Robin Hood," the man explained, staring almost helplessly up at John.

"What was the message?" asked John quietly, dread coiling like a snake in his guts.

"Bane said that if Robin Hood doesn't hand himself in within three days, he's going to- he’s going- Oh, John, he's going to burn down the orphanage with the boys still inside."

\---

Ignoring the mix of dismayed and outraged cries that rang out across the wooded clearing, John forced himself to take a step away from the priest. Lady Kyle's warning echoed dismally in his head. _Like rats in the undergrowth. He's coming for you_. The colour drained from his face and he felt unsteady. Bane couldn't have sent a clearer message that the fight was turning personal.

Irrationally, his mind attempted to flick through any other blameless people he might have had contact with who Bane could turn into leverage. Ironically, most of the men he would have considered friends were caught in Bane's massacre. Apart from Gordon - who he hoped was safely out of the country - there was no one else.

He turned back to Father Reilly who was thankfully regaining some colour in his concave cheeks. Bending down on one knee, he said, "I'm so terribly sorry for dragging you and the boys into this war."

The priest scoffed, "What’re you talking about, John? It'll be alright. You can help though, can't you? We need to find this Robin Hood. If he's done half the things people say he has, the boys will be alright."

"Father," broached John, encouraging him to look harder at his surroundings- encouraging him to see a ramshackle group of amateur soldiers, camouflaged in green and armed to their teeth. "Father, you don't understand. I _am_ Robin Hood."

Reilly's expression of surprise was comical and John almost couldn't keep the smile from his face. Almost. The thought of the boys' perilous situation was enough to wipe any humour from their meeting. He didn't want to leave his men too much time to brood over what it meant that Bane knew the real identity of their leader. He'd long suspected Bane knew exactly which men escaped from Gotham Keep, but as only some of them had entered the forest…

But then he'd been stupid. Stupid enough not to shoot more inaccurately when killing Bane's men; stupid enough to rise to his baiting and slice his cheek. John had just wanted him to know, to see that he could be dangerous too. Instead, he'd given himself away. Kyle must have been trying to warn him all those months ago.

Cursing his own idiocy, John barked, "We need a plan. Mark, when is Queen Miranda hosting that archery competition?"

"Day after tomorrow," he piped up.

"Right. That might be just enough time. Here's what we're going to do."

\---

The rough cotton of his garbs was itchy. John wondered idly whether the man he'd borrowed it from had added to its authenticity by supplying it with genuine lice. He scratched once and then forced himself to be still. He was supposed to be blending in, not worrying constantly at his clothing.

Timing was going to prove very crucial in the next few hours. He had tumbled into the competition field with the rest of the men and women who put themselves forward, enchanted by the idea of winning something that would help to feed their families. John was surprised as well to see many spectators crowding into the stands constructed from wood. A sporting competition must have taken the people of Gotham by such surprise, they were desperate to cling hold to any innocent joy and excitement.

Personally, John would have run a mile from any organised event that was presided over by Lord Bane. Speaking of which, the huge man hulked on a dais constructed for the nobility. John's lips twisted with sarcasm as he scanned the faces currently present. He recognised more than a few and wouldn't have pegged any of them as fine, upstanding gentlemen and women. He felt his heart twist in sympathy for poor Queen Miranda. What indignities must she be suffering through to see her court populated with criminals? 

Bane was dressed ceremoniously, black fabric disguising the brutal power coiled in his limbs. As ever happened when he was near the man, John felt his mouth run dry. Had Bane been a loyal supporter of King Bruce and not the country's singularly most traitorous enemy, he wouldn't have taken any pains to deny he found him physically…striking.

As it was, however, he was an enemy of throne. And, worse than that, he was apparently a man who enjoyed forcing himself upon unwilling partners. Even when his mind wandered to the electric sensation of muscles bunching beneath his fingertips as they fought, Blake didn't find it hard to also remember the disgust and the fear. There was a reason he'd spent the last six months fighting to survive and surviving to fight against this monster.

Using the competition as a welcome distraction, John ordered a select group of his men into Gotham. They'd observed the guard changeovers at the orphanage on the first day, so that on the second they would be ready to act. Carefully, John's men were going to change places with the new set of guards. He left it to their discretion whether to attack the arrivals before reaching the orphanage or after they were on their posts.

All that mattered was that his men would be in place on the exits and would hopefully remain undisturbed for several hours. As no alarms had yet rung, John could only assume that everything was progressing well. So far, so good. So far, so good. He repeated the short phrase like a prayer, even as a small gong sounded to officially announce the start of the contest.

So far, so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter this time, but I think it works best for the pace of the story. Trying to work out how to divide the chapters has probably been the trickiest thing about reposting from the meme.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your lovely, encouraging feedback. The pace notches up a gear from here on out!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

With his men busy in the narrow, gritty streets of Gotham's centre, John knew it was his turn now to pull his weight and help them with their task. He had to keep Bane's attention fixed here as his men escorted the kids out one by one through the city in disguise and then safely to the forest. John was going to have to play Bane as never before, attracting just enough curiosity, but not so much as to give the game away.

He was alone on the competition field, having refused to allow any of his men to accompany him. Blake told them it was so that he could escape more easily through the confusion. In reality, he wasn't sure how, or even if, he would get out. The moment Bane suspected John might be present, Blake was pretty sure he would send a few extra guards to the orphanage to double check everything was running accordingly and then summon the rest of his manpower here. He wouldn't ask any of his men to face those kinds of odds.

The rest of the competitors started warming up, stretching out tired bows and arms of varying thinness and gnarled qualities. Various individuals took the opportunity to even try a few practice shots. Disguised as best as possible with a filthy face and limbs and his peasant's ripped tunic, John joined them. No one would pay any special attention to a dirty, deluded pauper with mediocre accuracy.

Once everyone had been sorted into groups, John carefully placed himself as the last contestant. This way he would always be able to shoot just well enough to keep himself head of the pack. Aim came as naturally to him as breathing, giving him space for the occasional theatrics. A slightly wide shot accompanied by a shake of the head. A joke growled with another competitor. The whole business though was leaving him sick with apprehension, worrying and worrying that he would overstep the line, misjudge a shot or an action.

Altogether there were six rounds until a final winner could be declared. At this rate, the competition would take the better part of the day. Spending so much time this close to Bane was fraying on his nerves. On the other hand, there were benefits to exposing himself for so long: night could provide better cover for escape and his men would have all those hours to work at the orphanage.

He watched the rest of his competition keenly, cataloguing the odd threat, but more than confident he could take the prize if he wanted. The competitors seemed to comprise mostly of peasants and perhaps merchants. The sharp shooters he was looking for - members of the army and the old nobility - were either keeping a low profile or potentially dead. The thought was sobering, but he recalled Gordon's warning not to under estimate anyone.

It was when they got to the start of the third round of the competition John knew trouble was brewing. The targets were moved further from the archers and most of those who'd simply come to try their luck had been whittled away. Blake could see Bane's eyes keenly scanning those remaining, hunting for familiar features or any hint of wrongness. He forced himself to turn away before they reached him, shielding his eyes against the wintry sunlight as though to observe the new distance.

They'd used some extra padding to alter his wiry shape, but he couldn't contain a shudder that tumbled down his spine as those cold eyes passed over him. Bane was on the prowl.

The greater distance was proving a challenge for most of John's competition and, furthermore, he'd begun to sense that the crowd were starting to take note of him. Much as he tried to keep his profile low, he heard the odd cheer ring out when one of his arrows inched a fraction closer to the gold than all the men before him. Perhaps edging just ahead wasn't a very good idea? Maybe a couple of poorer shots would ease off the attention?

He could see the gambling men infiltrating the crowds, happy now that the number of competitors was manageable for them to do business. They gesticulated his way more than once. John bit his lip. Was it too soon for this to be happening? The lack of news from the orphanage was almost worse than enduring Bane's constant scrutiny. When he wasn't concentrating on taking a shot, his mind ran feverishly from supposition to supposition. Were the kids out and safe in the forest or had Bane captured his men and was just letting the little charade play out for his own perverse amusement?

\---

The fourth round saw the targets back another few paces, forcing even John's full concentration. There were five others left beside himself. If Bane was looking for him, the pool of possible suspects was rapidly narrowing and John was certain that any second the man was going to see through his flimsy, conspicuous disguise. Sweat beaded on his brow, but still his arrows flew true.

The hitch in the road came when the man before John, dressed in shabby navy blue and possibly a trader of some sorts fallen on hard times, unexpectedly slammed an arrow on the bottom edge of the gold. Many in the crowd groaned; they had their money on the grubby peasant and there was no way he would be able to stay in the competition now. Sure he'd been steady, but nothing impressive.

Blake's eyes flickered nervously towards the dais where Queen Miranda rested on the throne. She was watching the competition progress, but there was no sense of curiosity or liveliness in her gaze. He thought she looked pale and drawn. Bane, on the other hand, was thriving in the atmosphere of suspicious rivalry. Though his long, heavy limbs sprawled outwards in a posture of steady calm, John could practically hear the mechanical clanking of his mind.

Perhaps it was time to throw caution to the wind. John was supposed to be distracting Bane. Better give him something be to be distracted about.

Assuming his place before the target, John straightened up his back further than he had before. Loosening his shoulders and murmuring a short litany of _please, please, please, don't let this be too obvious_ , he fired.

The arrow landed just shy of the centre of the gold, showing the previous shot for what it was - clumsy good luck. A hush settled upon the spectators as they debated whether John’s shot was also a fluke or a sensational revelation of talent.

Bane reflexively straightened on his throne (for, though it sat slightly lower than Queen Miranda's, its arrogant gold leaf opulence demanded no other title). The movement drew a small from John. Bane looked frustrated with himself, clearly not wanting to have had such an obvious reaction. Satisfied he had done enough to secure his progress to the next round, John improved the accuracy of his following shots, but ensured they were nothing as special.

Although Bane appeared to relax, John couldn't help but notice the steady influx of guards to the competition ground. The routes out were quickly closing up and John still had no idea how he was going to escape.

\---

Blake was sitting quietly on a hay bale, mentally preparing himself for the final round. The final round was due to start imminently. At first, he'd remained out on the field, but spectators started to come up to him, wanting to wish him luck. He knew they mostly meant well, but the constant interruptions were pushing his nerves ever closer to a breaking point.

Needing space to think about the next steps, John snuck away to the quietest corner he could manage. It turned out to be a tent set up as an impromptu stable to house the horses of those who hadn't suffered so badly under Bane's rule. He had every intention of coming a noble second and bowing out before the so-called Sheriff took much notice. He would allow the victor to absorb the Bane's focus, cowardly as that was. As far as he could see, his job would be done if he just kept Bane's interest for another half an hour.

The sun was rapidly heading towards the horizon, stripping the world of its weak light. The competition would need to conclude soon, otherwise they would not be able to see to aim. John fiddled with his bow, steadily ignoring the memories of the penetrating gazes Lord Bane would throw his way from the dais.

He stood to return to his place as the trumpets began to herald the final round. All at once, a small, bony figure collided with him, taking the wind from his stomach. Coughing, John doubled over to come face to face with Mark. He shook him as though scolding for clumsiness, when actually he asked frantically, "What are you _doing_ here?"

"Don't worry! No one saw me and they wouldn't have a clue who I am if they did. We need a bit more time, Robin. We had trouble with one of the guards and it's taking longer to find ways to smuggle the kids out of the city than we thought. Can you do anything?"

John gritted his teeth. "How much time?"

"Maybe less than an hour. We're nearly there, but we gotta get everyone out."

"I can do something, but I want you away from here. You understand me?"

"Sure, sure. I got it. See you later?"

Robin raised a hand as if to deal the boy a gentle cuff to the ear, then faltered thinking better of it. "Yeah," he repeated reassuringly. "Later. Of course you will. Scram, kid."

\---

The lump of dread seemed to weigh his very feet to the ground, but march onwards John must. He morbidly wondered whether this was the sort of sensation men had as they faced the gallows. There was a job only he could do and it was time to stop playing around. He'd been baiting Bane all day; perhaps he owed it to him to spring the trap and test the hunter's skills?

Stalking back to take his place at the line facing the target, John ignored the lukewarm smattering of applause that greeted his reappearance.

John had never been artistic or terribly imaginative by nature, too aware of the dirty, mundane realities of living at too young an age. But if he ever came close to experiencing what great artists or dancers or musicians felt, it was when he practised archery. He needed no one else's appreciation or gratitude. Drawing the bow with a steady sweep of his arm, Blake took aim.

The crowd whistled in appreciation as the arrow hit home.

John didn't even need to look to check his accuracy, the increasingly loud cheers from the crowd told all. They stirred themselves into a fever pitch of excitement, drawn to his sudden revelation of poise and grace.

Gently he tapped his final arrow against the quiver on his back. Before sticking the notch into place, John sought Bane's face through the bubbling throngs. Certain the man was looking, Blake's lips curved into a wicked, faintly flirtatious, smirk he'd learnt from Selina Kyle. It was a smile that promised mischief and a knowledge of a victory already secured.

There were four arrows clustered at the centre of the target and John's last split the most central of all down the middle. The crowd went wild.

\--- 

Bane stood, calming the celebratory cries with the smallest of gestures. An instant hush settled, as simultaneously all forgot the happiness brought by contests that reminded them of the peaceful days under King Bruce and recalled the true nature of their situation, oppressed by a tyrant.

John barely had time to shoulder his bow when a cluster of soldiers encircled him, ostensibly with the purpose of escorting him to the throne to receive his wonderful prize. Biting his lip viciously, John willed himself not to betray his anxiety. He allowed them to shepherd him first towards the dais and then up some rickety wooden closer and closer to Bane, who was addressing the fine assembly.

He spewed nonsense John barely registered about acknowledging unseen talents and nurturing the skills of the populace. If Blake had been listening, it probably would have made him sick to the stomach. Instead, he was concentrating on a plan of action. He knew once he reached a certain proximity to Bane, his mind would be tempted to draw a blank. It was imperative that didn't happen.

"People of Gotham, I present to you, the winner of the Golden Arrow and your champion archer." John wondered if he was the only one who could hear the utter contempt in Bane's tone.

He paused to let the faux-nobility applaud. Fixed all around with hungry gazes, it was all John could do to keep from trembling as Bane's large hand settled on his shoulder. It looked to all like a genial backslap, except this was Lord Bane who seemingly knew only how to use his limbs for violence, not kindness. There was no chance of backing away, only the crushing knowledge that he couldn't run.

With the greatest care, Bane used the finger and thumb of his other hand to brush away the mud offering John's pale skin poor concealment. It was an oddly intimate gesture; Blake hated every second he felt warm skin brushing over his cheek, his forehead, his nose. He felt so damned vulnerable. In a sudden spur of movement, Bane tore the cap from John's head and whirled him around to face the waiting crowd. Perhaps taken aback by the revelation of fine skin and thick, dark hair, they remained silent until Bane announced. "I present to you the great champion of your pathetic nation. The outlaw wanted for numerous crimes against the crown. The glorified traitor you have so quaintly anointed 'Robin Hood.'"

\--- 

This was the cue John had been waiting for. Even some of the soldiers seemed a little surprised at identity of the man they had captured. Apparently they hadn't thought he'd be stupid enough to take part - let alone win - either.

Moving at lightning speed, John snatched a small, mercifully sharp dagger from the belt of the nearest guard. Before anyone knew what had happened, he threw it with all the force he could muster and sliced through one of the ropes suspending a decorative awning above the dais. The thick, embroidered fabrics were certainly a sight when the rest of the populace were reduced to poverty, but when they fell to the earth, the rich cloth became nothing more than nuisance.

Confused by the chaos of ripping fabric, John had no difficulty in snatching a second blade. Severed ropes on the remaining side sent the awning toppling towards the ground. Around him people swarmed in panic. They were unprepared for the darkness, but John was not. Bane's hand fell momentarily from his shoulder, giving John leave to push his way in a straight line directly down the rough stairs of the stand and down onto blissful turf.

Counting on total confusion, John sprinted around the outskirts of the competition field. Every so often he would slam into someone scurrying the other way. If he could just get into the city itself, Blake was fairly confident he would be able to change his clothes and disappear down the back alleys. A few terrified glances cast over his shoulder informed him that time was of the essence. Bane's soldiers were already massing in orderly lines back at what remained of the pavilion.

As he was looking back, John collided with yet another citizen. He opened his mouth to apologise when the man's reflexive grip around him tightened. At first John feared he'd been captured, but a rough voice hissed in his ear, "Get yourself out, Blake. We'll keep Bane's soldiers dancing here."

Pulling backwards, John stared dumbfounded into the face of Captain Foley. "B-but if you draw attention to yourself," he stammered.

"I reckon I've buried my head in the sand for long enough now. Can't leave idiots like you to plan these things and take all the damned glory."

"If all goes well- will you come to the forest?"

"Just get yourself out and we’ll see."

John didn't need to be told twice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. Will hopefully post the next chapter extra-quickly to make up for it!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick pre-warning: there is some violence in this chapter. I don't think it's any worse that canon-typical violence you would see in the films and it's not described in gratuitous detail. I just wanted to flag though, in case it's the kind of thing some might prefer to avoid/have a head's up about.

It took John several days to recover his nerves from the Golden Arrow incident. He could still sense the weight of Bane's hand on his shoulder, radiating such an uncomfortable heat. He dreamt of those fingers brushing his face, but then drifting down to caress his neck. Only then they would tighten ever so slowly and John would wake up gasping for breath.

The men found the whole escapade retrospectively hilarious, believing they had entirely outsmarted the pompous sheriff. Each of the boys was gradually being dispersed to unobtrusive villages many miles from Gotham. Gossip had it that Bane had murdered every single guard who had been responsible for watching the doors. The rumours made John nauseous; he could full well believe a massacre would be Bane's reaction to such a humiliation.

Having issued an order for everyone to lie low until the heat passed, John was somewhat dismayed when Will lumbered up carrying what looked like an official proclamation in his rough hands. They had to have taken it from a nearby town or village. "No one saw," was all he would offer by way of comfort. He pressed it upon John with such a profoundly gloomy expression, Blake knew it must contain bad news.

"The Lord Chief Justice appointed by her Majesty Queen Miranda hereby declares that Captain Foley, formerly of the King's Guard and now traitor to the crown, has been found guilty of high treason and sentenced to death at noon on the fourth day of-"

The Captain's careworn face rushed into John's mind, his bravery… He knew before he'd even finished reading the parchment that he would not be able to stand by and let the man die. God knew John didn't want to risk it. He recoiled from the idea of entering Gotham so soon after he had enraged its occupiers, but to leave Foley - a man who had potentially saved his life - to the noose on account of cowardice masquerading as practicality stood against every principle that had driven him to this forest in the first place.

"You remember our theory about infiltrating the castle…" began John carefully, his mind whirring into action to review tactical options.

Will eyed him anxiously, his large eyebrows lowering as a sure sign of concern. John could tell the man did not like where this was going one bit. "Yes?"

"I think we might have an occasion to try it out."

\---

Another time, John would have been tempted to spirit Foley from the gallows. As it was, any public gathering whatsoever was going to be impenetrable after their stunt at the archery tournament. Bane's men, having already watched their comrades lose their lives as a result of one failure, would be on red hot alert for any strange faces. If they were going to succeed, they would have to snatch Foley from somewhere even Bane wouldn't suspect he’d venture. Right under their noses.

The plan was admittedly tenuous at best and whilst John didn't want to risk his best men getting caught, he had no desire to bring those less competent on such a dangerous mission. For this to have even a hope of succeeding, the men would require costume worn by Bane's various troops. If they took the uniforms from soldiers in Gotham, the disappearances would raise alarms.

As they hoped, however, a tax cart trundled through the forest the dusk before Foley's scheduled execution. Bane's cohorts were quickly dispatched, allowing some of John's men to take their place. Their carriage hopefully would pass into the city without question, just as the city gates were closed for the night.

This left John to lead several others to the most secluded spot of the city wall - a place where the boughs of Arkham's ancient trees almost scrapped the bricks of the city. A low whistle informed them that the mission was thus far running smoothly. Seconds later, long ropes dropped silently down the steep face of the city wall. Shooting his men an encouraging nod, John took hold of the rough hemp and began to climb.

Finding their way to the dungeons was always going to be the hardest part. Mostly familiar with the castle, the men could tread with confidence and hug the shadowy corners of the corridors. They encountered the odd guard, but otherwise their journey into the bowels of the castle progressed without untoward alarm.

Blake didn't like it one bit. Just as the best of clichés went, it was too quiet, too easy. The hairs on the back of his neck constantly bristled in warning, but there just wasn't any other choice. John forced himself to place one sure foot after another, leading his men deeper into the labyrinth of passages. Down and down they went, with the walls growing closer and the shadows growing darker. Colder and colder, embraced by the bowels of the earth as they passed from the areas used in daily life to a space altogether dank and miserable.

John had always hated Gotham's dungeons, grateful they employed their own group of guards and that members of the King's army didn't need to pass this way regularly. It didn't take them long to find the man they wanted. In another life, John might have pitied the old jailer who suddenly found himself faced with a gang of, essentially, thieves and robbers armed to the teeth, but there was no time for that sort of compassion tonight.

Having practically terrified the jailer into having a heart attack, threatening his life if he didn't divulge where Foley was being imprisoned, John found himself facing an imposing cell door. The jailer, who could best be described as corpulent, hulked a crumpled mass in the corner where John had clubbed him unconscious. He knew there was nothing left to do but put the key in the lock and turn, but Blake's hand felt as though it was moving through treacle. Too quiet, too easy, whispered the voice again.

By God, John would spend many days and hours wishing he had listened to his intuition and abandoned the mission then. But honour is a difficult thing and John was essentially powerless in the face of the life debt he owed Foley.

Throwing the barred door wide and wincing at the shriek of its hinges, John peered into the inky gloom of the damp room. "Captain Foley?"

He watched the pale hands reach out of the shadows like one trapped helpless in a nightmare. Surely it could only be a nightmare? Forcibly lifted from the ground, John was drawn in to the room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was left staring up in wordless horror at the masked face of the man he was sworn to fight against until he died. Bane's voice chilled him to the core as he growled, "How kind of you to join us, Lieutenant Blake."

Looked like that dying business might happen sooner than previously thought.

\--- 

An answering chorus of sniggers drew John's attention to the fact they were not alone. He realised belatedly that this was not the tiny cell usually reserved for the condemned. Someone had moved Foley's hypothetical location in order to aid in trapping him. That bloody jailer must have been in on it. Unable to move his head due to Bane's grip on his throat, John's eyes could only flick in dismay from one unfriendly face to the next.

Men stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a voracious pack. There was a scramble as the cell door slammed, a heavy lock clicked shut, and others moved to light the precious few torches bracketed to the wall.

John became aware through his fear that he was struggling for breath. Bane was slowly crushing his windpipe and spots were dancing before his eyes. Just as John thought he was about to pass out, Bane set him on the ground. Unable to gain his footing, it was easy work to shove him backwards into the waiting arms of his troops. From the bruising force with which they held him, John knew there would be no surprise escapes this time.

"Where's Captain Foley?" he asked, his voice so hoarse he could barely make the words audible.

Bane chuckled. He clicked his fingers and two more men dragged forth a bedraggled, struggling figure. "You mean this man? The man who betrayed you?"

John’s mind wasn't working; he simply couldn't make the connections fast enough. "Don't be ridiculous."

Foley was pulling weakly against the men holding him, "You've got him now. Let me go! Let my family go! You promised." He sounded like a petulant child, a man pushed to the very end of his wits.

"Let you go? The truant Captain of the King's Guard?" Bane sounded genuinely surprised, "You didn't really think I would let you walk away? After all that effort of your public trial. You're going to send a message. The warm up act to entertain the people of Gotham before I slaughter their precious Robin Hood before their eyes. As for your family, I believe my exact promise was that they would not be harmed. Nothing was mentioned regarding freedom."

Foley emitted a broken sob and John snarled in a rage, "You bastard-” He got no further in his protest as a filthy rag was forced between his lips and drawn tight against his face. He was forced to watch in silence as Bane's men dragged an unresisting Foley from the room. "Put him with the rest," Bane ordered. John had a sinking feeling knew who 'the rest' were.

Taking advantage of his apparent docility, his captors forced his arms behind his back. They were tied together tightly at the wrist and then more uncomfortably at the elbow, driving John's shoulder blades painfully close together. Bane caught his chin, lifting John's head to peer at it in the weak light. That terrible mask and its sickly smell were Blake's final impressions of the world as another foul piece of cotton was bound tightly over his eyes.

He heard the creak of wood and the shuffle of feet, as Bane instructed quietly, "Rough him up, but no permanent damage."

From somewhere outside another of Foley's mournful cries filtered through the grime-ridden bars of John's new prison. He could think of no better sound to express the despair in his soul.

\--- 

Blake didn't know how long this perverse game of blind man's bluff continued. He was shoved unceremoniously from man to man. Blows rained down as he struggled to orientate himself in the darkness. Hands snatched and pulled at his clothing, making most unwelcome advances before shoving a finger or thumb mercilessly into a pressure point.

At first, John tried hard not to cry out. Eventually, however, shock got the better of him. He could feel his limbs begin to quiver as he stumbled from one side of the circle to the next. Enveloped in the mockery of an embrace before being punched solidly in the gut, the mercurial alterations began to overwhelm him. He would have preferred to die being able to fight back, not stagger pathetically like a rag doll.

Finally, Bane's voice cut through the haze of confusion and throbbing agony, "Enough."

He heard one or two noises of discontent, but they were quickly silenced as yet more hands flung him forwards. The momentum sent him skidding across of the floor on his knees. John only stopped when he felt his head collide with something warm and firm. Blake was desperate to move away, but with the horrible cloth in his mouth, it was difficult to catch his breath. Ever the fighter, he shuffled his legs underneath him in preparation to stand.

Fingers threaded through his hair, pushing down with just enough pressure to suggest moving would be very bad indeed. John shivered at the caress. He was no martial expert by any means, but even John could tell the men had mostly been toying with him. Although their blows were hard, they were targeted at large muscle groups, not important areas like his head or kidneys.

The fabric around his eyes began to loosen. Blake glanced up, wincing as his eyes adjusted once more to the feeble light of the cell. Bane stared down and John didn't need to see his mouth to know he was smiling. "You'll have to forgive them," he wheezed. "You've presided over the massacre of many of their colleagues and they've been waiting for a chance to return the favour."

He thumbed an area of John's cheekbone, just below his eye. Vaguely John could recall he'd caught somebody's elbow wrong and supposed it must now be red or bruising. Without warning, Bane pushed down, forcing John to choke back a cry. And it was stupid, but all John could think of was that ridiculous story about Bane crushing a man's skull with his bare hands until his victim's brains ran free.

"Leave us. Lieutenant Blake and I have much to discuss."

\---

He kept John at his feet. If John had been in a better frame of mind, he'd have wondered what that said about Bane's need for superiority. As it was, he had Bane's second, the man called Barsad, pressed closely up against his back. Barsad released his hands as soon as the last man left, but kept his left arm twisted up so tightly behind John's back, the barest movement threatened to wrench his shoulder.

Bane took hold of his right, resting it gently across the expansive muscle of his thigh. It was as though he could sense John hated these gentle touches most of all. He knew what to expect with violence, could brace himself for pain. The unpredictable way Bane played games made that mental preparation almost impossible.

"There are many ways to break a man, Lieutenant. You can break his body, hurt him, and humiliate him. Or there's the mind. Exceedingly fragile, according to Doctor Crane. But if you know your enemy, there's a different way. You can take away the building blocks that construct his very identity, destroy his faith in the world around him. Empty him until death becomes a merciful relief."

John grunted, attempting to tug his wrist from Bane's grip. "You always talk this much? Or do you just like the sound of your own voice?" God, he was grateful that foul gag had gone quickly as well.

Ignoring his retort, Bane began to rub his thumb softly over the knuckle of John's little finger. "An illustration, perhaps? Your greatest physical talent lies in your archery. You shoot with admirable accuracy. But this is the only skill that sets you ahead of other men. So, if your hand were to be damaged... Say, the fingers of your right hand broken, you would be stripped of that advantage."

Somewhere, dimly, Bane's intentions were surfacing in John's mind. The man waited for the moment Blake gazed up at him in panic before casually snapping the bone. A scream ripped its way up John's throat. Barsad shoved his writhing body closer to Bane's chair. He was allowed no respite as Bane continued along his hand, leaving his fingers mangled and bent. By the end, he had unconsciously pressed his face into the fabric of Bane's trousers, trying desperately to shut out the pain.

Barsad silently drew the injured limb behind his back, offering up his left for Bane's attention. "But, the trouble with you, John, is that where other men would have accepted the whim of Fortune. You, no doubt, will convince yourself that you don't need your right hand. Learn with your left. Better men have done it before you, you will tell yourself. Allow me to spare you another foolish hope."

John fought more viciously this time, but all Barsad had to do was to squeeze his injured hand to force him into submission. Bane took his time over the left, allowing the first few agonising throbs to spike before moving on. "Broken bones need to be set, if they're to heal correctly. Unfortunately, we seem to have misplaced the castle doctor. I suppose yours will heal on their own, but I imagine archery will be exceptionally difficult if you cannot bend your fingers properly."

\---

He pushed John from him, allowing his a few moments to cradle his broken fingers on the dirty floor of the cell. With great difficulty, John calmed his hiccoughing breaths. His hands were a web of pain, but men had endured worse. He would not give Bane the benefit of hearing him weep over an essentially trivial injury. It didn't matter what the monster said. Even if the bones healed wrong, John could get them broken again and reset. And who even needed archery anyway-

His desperate monologue was pulled up short by Bane's dark chuckle from the chair. "I can practically hear your vain attempts to reassure yourself. You're a good man, John Blake, but that's the trouble with good men. They're predictable. Allow me to leave you with some final thoughts to contemplate through the long night."

Before he could get further, however, the cell door slammed open. John turned and was confronted with a vision. There stood Queen Miranda. She wore only a simple gown of deep purple, but to John she appeared like an angelic vision. "I did not think it true when I heard," she whispered, advancing slowly into the room. The cell door slipped shut behind her. John was torn between a hope that she might be able to intervene on his behalf and fear that she would anger Lord Bane.

There was no time for him to speak, however, as Queen Miranda swept by without sparing him another glance. "And he came right into the castle?"

"Loyal soldier to the last," responded Bane mockingly.

"To sacrifice his life for a worm as miserable as Foley…"

A terrible set of events were putting themselves together in John's head. Determined not to wallow on the straw-ridden floor, Blake struggled to his feet. The familiar tone the Queen used with Bane… It couldn't be... His original suspicions... God. Had he been right all along? "You- You and him?"

Miranda posed coquettishly. "You needn't pretend to be shocked; I know you never liked me, John." Her voice was musical, the siren's call to destruction. Blake took a faltering step forwards, entranced despite the horror. "And yet, you were the only man to try to save me from dishonour." Laughter accompanied the word 'save'. "I was surprised. And pleased, of course. We needed a brave man like you."

"I don't understand."

"Your trouble, John, is that you have two visions of Gotham. You see it glorious and pure under the rule of my esteemed husband. Or you see it treacherous and tyrannical under the thumb of Sheriff Bane. But, your imagination is limited. Whatever the outcome, one factor remains the same- Gotham stands."

Blake's head was spinning and he felt dangerously as though the earth was falling from his feet. "Sheriff Bane and I are more flexible with regards to Gotham's prospects. In fact, we've been working quite hard to ensure it doesn't have any."

"But why would you want to destroy the country? Aren't you ruling it? What use are ruins?"

"Oh, John," she breathed his name with such sickening sweetness. Gently she took his battered face between her soft, soft palms. Smoothing the sweaty hair from his forehead, she murmured, "If only I'd found you first. I think I could have made you love me."

What hurt John worse than any physical pain was the knowledge that she spoke to the truth. She was Helen of Troy and it was clear from the proud swell of Bane's chest as she floated around the dungeon that men would willingly sacrifice themselves for her in the heat of battle.

"You're very aptly named," she murmured, moving away to rest a familiar arm on Bane's shoulder. It was strange, so strange to see them acting like mortals for a change, slaves of their own passions. If John had been free, it might have filled him with hope that they could be beaten after all. "John. John, the man sent to herald the coming of the saviour King. Only, your king won't be coming to save you, will he?"

\---

"What did you do to him?" John growled, aware anger was once more clawing at his stomach. It was one thing to threaten and humiliate him, but King Bruce? No.

"I wish I'd been there to see his face. He must have been so surprised when the only party there to greet him when he disembarked in the Holy Land was Lord Bane and his men."

"What did you _do_?"

"I broke him," answered Bane simply. "I broke him and then left him to fester in the same miserable prison he allowed others to sink into. I believe he is still just clinging to life. We send him regular descriptions of how Gotham fares. Tell me, do you think his spirit will last until Gotham smoulders in ashes?"

John attempted to launch himself at the smug bastard, but his second was there too quickly. A forceful club to the head and John was back down on his knees, convincing the world to stop spinning.

"You've played a starring role in the story thus far," smiled Queen Miranda without the smallest trace of true mirth in her face. "I thought it would be harder, but you played right into our hands."

"If you’re going to keep talking in riddles-"

"Look harder, John. Did you really think you would have escaped that massacre if we hadn't let you? Do you truly believe you've survived so long with your pitiful group of outlaws on your own merit? Would you have stood a chance of escaping Gotham if we hadn't already manipulated Captain Foley into safeguarding your passage out?”

"You've been using me." John had to voice the words, needed to hear the bitter truth from his own mouth.

"A pretty puppet, dancing on our strings. But don't you wonder why?" Miranda's rich eyes flashed brightly, luminous in the darkness like the eyes on a jaguar. She was clearly waiting for the pounce, the deadly blow to finish off her prey.

John would beat her to it. She would be deprived of this kill. "Hope. You needed me to give people hope so that you can take it away."

"At first, I thought they might unite behind me, but apparently nothing can win the hearts of this country's inhabitants like a doe-eyed, romantic rebel, fighting for a lost cause. Possessions and bodies are easily destroyed, but you've given us to the key Gotham's soul, Lieutenant Blake." She brushed passed him, the purple of her robe blending nicely with the bruises blossoming on his face. Bending to press her mouth against his ear, she whispered, "We couldn't have done it without you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;_;
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your lovely feedback. <3


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a small Trigger Warning for this Chapter - Please see notes at the end if you'd like a head's up on this before reading on. =)

The hours John spent imprisoned in the castle he once called home passed with agonising slowness. Literally. Bane stood by his threat and left John's useless hands unbound. With nothing offered to remedy the pain, John knew he was going to have to find a way to cope, anything from biting his tongue or gritting his teeth. He pursued distraction after distraction, but eventually he realised nothing would be sufficient. His mind was always drawn back by the siren-like pain in his maimed fingers.

The additional trouble was, without his hands, John was useless to defend himself. He could struggle and writhe, but all it took was a gentle pressure on his swollen fingers and he was fighting to keep from begging whoever touched him to stop.

Before he left the first night, Bane informed him that Foley's execution would be delayed for three days. He wanted time for the news of Robin's capture to filter through the populace. One of the guards whispered nastily some hours later that Queen Miranda was hoping for a riot. He literally shivered with excitement at the prospect of slaughtering ill prepared and ignorant peasants. John wasn't sure which left him more nauseous – the ongoing throbbing in his hands or the avaricious bloodlust.

Although his words were clearly meant to exacerbate John's anguish, they perversely provided a point of focus. If Bane was going to force him to watch the deaths of the men he'd led and betrayed through poor judgement, he would have to find a way to communicate- to communicate what? Calm? Resignation to failure? Whether he reacted or remained impassive, would it even matter? If Bane murdered innocent men and paraded John's broken body and people were sufficiently hungry, angry, and desperate…

John might just be able to live through seeing comrades in arms swinging from a gibbet, but he wasn't sure his conscience could bear a massacre in his name. A massacre brought about by his own blindness and stupidity.

True despair settled its heavy weight upon John's bright spirit. He lay on the dismal, mouldering mat and pile of straw that passed for a bed in a blank stupor. For the first time, he allowed himself to seriously consider that Father Gordon was dead and that King Bruce, injured in the middle of whatever distant land in the East, was not coming back.

\--- 

The agony in his hands didn't abate, but somehow John's body managed to tolerate the constant aching. He supposed he'd been foolish to think that would be enough violence, enough torture. Five men came for him in what felt like the middle of the night (although it was difficult to tell – they were purposefully waking and forcing him to sleep at odd hours), tumbling him to the floor with hateful ease. Automatically, he thrust his hands out to bear the brunt of his fall. John couldn't have stopped the scream that echoed around the room if he'd tried.

They laughed and carried on.

When one man was firmly pressing a leg or arm into the floor so that John was pinned on his back, a third produced a hammer. Its head was delicate, almost of the precision John would associated with medical men or jewellers.

The work they did with it was also delicate. So fine, John could only think of it as an art.

Ripping his sweat-soaked, filthy shirt open, they methodically located one of his ribs. It wasn't until the man lifted his wrist to prepare for the blow that John understood what was about to happen. He struggled reflexively, but was stopped short by the crush of bones. Instantly pain blossomed in his chest. John felt as though he couldn't breathe, as though his lungs would not expand to take in sufficient air.

Even as his eyes rolled back in his head, the man with the hammer found another target. Somewhere in his pain-addled mind, John wondered whether they were going to shatter his entire ribcage, just like they'd mutilated his fingers. They fractured six bones altogether, three on each side of the body. But the damage was enough. John could barely move. When the men released his limbs, he remained strangely still, paralysed by shock.

In some ways, the exposure of his skin to so many hungry eyes and the systematic destruction of his body felt like a violation. His mind struggled to accept what had happened, the adrenaline coursing through his body offering a tantalisingly brief respite from agony. Slowly, John was beginning to realise just how much of him they could ruin whilst remaining sure he wouldn't lose his life before they were ready.

Sometime later – it could have been hours, could have been days for all he was aware of the slow passage of the sun as it shone through the tiny slits passing as windows into the room – John managed to drag himself to the mat, clumsily drawing the straw around him like a child might clutch a blanket. The cell was freezing, but John's body burned, already mottled with bruising. He could feel the sweat pouring from his forehead. He whimpered periodically when the pain spiked. Still no one came to address his wounds. It was as though he walked alternately through a scorching desert and a forest wrapped in winter – sweat and shivers.

Eventually John slipped into merciful unconsciousness. His last conscious thought was to pray that the fever might rob Bane of his prize.

Drifting in and out, John could almost convince himself that the masked face looming over him must be a hallucination. He couldn't recall hearing the door to his cell open, hadn't picked up on the soft tread of feet as they crossed the dismal room.

The fingers stroking his clammy cheek certainly could not belong to a man of flesh and blood. They were as gentle as whispers, barely brushing the pale surface.

\---

With his pupils blown, John's eyes looked darker than ever as they fluttered open wide just once in a silent plea. A pink flush sat unnaturally on his increasingly gaunt cheeks – he looked as though he'd been made up to play the whore. Something stirred hot and guiltily in the pit of Bane's stomach. Wasn't that was he wanted? A strange weakness he'd nurtured in the very depths of the night, when finally, just for a few moments he could indulge his own whims in a life otherwise governed by the strictest self-discipline.

In the darkness, hadn't he remembered the press of Blake's body against his own? The firm curves of muscle, promising a lithe figure beneath enticing layers of clothes? He had to admit, in these strange fantasies, he'd not given much thought to a narrative. He'd not paused to consider whether Blake was willing, whether protesting until encouraged to submit. Faced with the reality of a helpless man brought low - Bane's mind and body warred between reality and fantasy, unwelcome pangs of pity and a desire to cement his conquest.

But perhaps he'd not been as subtle about the nature of his interest as hoped and the choice was not now his own to make. There were not many conversations with Talia he'd considered uncomfortable in nature. He lived to serve her, couldn't think of a life where the breath he took into his body wasn't exclusively for the purpose of forging ahead with their, _her_ plans. Add to that the many years they had spent living together, learning about the quirks and strange personal habits that only those who share the closest of bonds would be privy to.

That night had been different. Following their departure from the Great Hall after the daily evening meal, Talia sent word she wanted to see him. Obeying without question, he was unsettled to open the door to her chamber and find it transformed into an alien world. Scent drifted through the air – heavy, sweet – perhaps a mixture of myrrh and frankincense. They were certainly the kinds of spices most could only dream of procuring in such an unsettled time.

She lay draped on a chaise – her hair freed from its usual elegant knots, carefully designed to support and enhance the tasteful coronet she wore to conduct business. It curled across her skin, rich and dark. Her eyes fluttered open and for a spilt second, it wasn't her face Bane saw, but Blake's. He blinked quickly, disconcerted by the image.

The evidence of the Queen's private relaxation wasn't just in her hair. Her maids must have made quick work of removing her courtly dress, replacing it with a simple silken slip and robe, both of which drifted from her slim shoulders to offer a view of beautiful, delicate collar bones and throat. She was the vision of beauty in the shadows and golden candlelight, so easy to understand how she'd lured Bruce to his slow, painful death.

Gazing at him through heavy lashes, she sighed. "How does our… special guest fare?"

Bane paused, unsure how to explain in this delicate setting that their agreed regime of torture was progressing to schedule. "I believe he has contracted a fever following the last visit to his cell."

Miranda frowned, almost pouted. "Well, now. Losing him to sickness this quickly will not do. Perhaps we should pause for a few hours, allow him to regather his strength?"

Shifting slightly from one side to another, Bane remained mute.

"Then again, perhaps there are other approaches we could try. You've said before… There are many ways to break a man." She sighed, resting gracefully back against the rich velvet cushions, "These have been difficult, _lonely_ months. I'm sure anyone would understand that someone in your position of responsibility might seek, on occasion, an… outlet."

Bane blinked. Only an idiot would miss what his Queen was insinuating. What he couldn't understand was whether she was offering permission as a trusted confidante or whether this was an order, an extra item tagged onto their list of revenges to seek upon Blake's body.

As if sensing his unusual hesitation, Miranda's forehead creased with the tiniest of frowns, "The spoils of war are not just to be taken and locked away, some may prove useful to one's own campaign. His heart still belongs to his precious King, but perhaps such noble sentiments will be harder to use as sustenance when one considers their body unclean and unfit for that devotion."

\---

There was a promise in the caress on his cheek, the slight shake of the fingers that betrayed a heated desire. Blake closed his eyes again, this time in quiet despair. If Bane had come for his body, had come to illustrate how a man could be broken through that particular humiliation – there was nothing John could do, except hope the fragmented bones in his ribcage didn't puncture a lung.

His tongue sat thick and stupid in his mouth, yet it still he managed to force out the words, "Why do you wear a mask?" Not what he'd meant to ask. He'd meant to request mercy, to request an understanding of his current weakness.

Bane removed his palm from John's cheek sharply. Rather than delivering a blow for the impertinent question, however, he reached up behind his shaved head to where the black cloth was knotted. As the strips fell away, they revealed pink, raw skin. John's imagination, already running riot, exaggerated the angry red lines of scar tissue until the bottom half of the man's face turned into naked muscle, a gory display where the skin had been pealed back to reveal the body's secret mechanisms.

"Courtesy of your king," hissed Bane slowly, the white of his teeth and jawbone scorching into John's retina in a strange leer. "The burns from the battle after which I was banished. The scars from the terrible place in the Holy Lands he abandoned me to."

Clearly Bane expected his observer to flinch away, to react with suitable horror when they realised he was a true monster after all. It must have been the wild surges of adrenaline, rushing in heady waves about his body to combat the pain, but John found strength to briefly lift his arm from the floor. Biting his cracked lips as his ribs jarred, he gently ran the tips of his abused fingers over the rough ridges. Bane was forgetting that John was a soldier. He'd seen his share of maimed bodies and open wounds.

"The smell- The mask helps with the pain, doesn't it?" He paused, an acute wave of sympathy washing over him as this creature, unwanted by all but those who would lead it astray, crouched above. "Won't it ever heal?" John finally asked in sudden despair, with nothing but heart-wrenching pity in his tone.

Then, unable to bear the discomfort any longer, John lowered his arm back to the floor. The fight drained from his body and he resigned himself to whatever whim had possessed his captor.

To his surprise, Bane simply refastened the mask. Momentarily hypnotised by the sweep of the black cloth and sharp scent of camphor, John hardly registered as he slipped back into darkness once more.

When he awoke again, he was alone.

\---

They came for him before noon. Eyeing him critically, one of the Bane's soldier's grunted there was a lot of work to do. John couldn't help but agree; breathing was difficult and walking seemed like a distant possibility. He was also sure infection still lingered inside his tired body, as the waves of hot and cold would crash upon him with varying levels of intensity.

Weakened from a lack of food and decent rest, John could only watch with dismay as they wrapped his bent fingers up in rough cloth. They didn't even try to straighten them out. He tried to stop the last dregs of hope seeping from his heart, but if they left his hands like this… It wasn't just archery he would lose, but the ability to hold a sword, maybe even to write?

John hardly knew what to do anymore. As they wrapped more plain cotton around his ribs as a form of support, he stared blankly at the wall. Would they kill all his men today? Would Bane drag it out over a number of weeks? He’d already told John he would stand beside him on the castle walls, as his men went to their fates. They wanted him to be a spectacle, to show off his broken hands, his bruised swollen face, and his powerlessness. What could Robin Hood do without his magic bow and arrow? Not a lot against a powerful man like Bane.

Blake knew he was descending into self-pity, but he couldn't help it. He'd fought so hard and at the end of it all… the men he thought he might ultimately defeat were sniggering at his ridiculous idealism. Gotham would founder; he could see it now. Perhaps he would do better to give in quickly and spare the populace a drawn out struggle to break him.

He was still uncertain as to whether the conversation about Bane's mask had actually taken place, but the next time Bane walked into the cell, he promptly broke John's nose with an unforgiving strike to the face. The cold expression and firm set of his lips communicated instantly a sense of failure at being unable to strip John of what little dignity he was still clinging to. As he crouched on the floor with blood streaming down his chin and into his mouth, John wondered whether Bane would exact the punishment on him another way.

A swift swing of the fist and John's cheek bone crunched. He could hear the sounds of splintering bones right inside his own ear. Remaining on his knees, John could only stare up at the brutish figure with hatred. What else did he have left except the capacity to despise an individual who had brought his world to ruin?

It was this smouldering hatred that kept John's steps firm as Bane led him like a lamb to slaughter up onto the high wall. It was hatred - not hope - that kept his expression neutral when he spotted four of his men and Foley huddled together in a miserable cart at the foot of the gallows. Bane and Miranda and all their hideous fighters had taken enough from him. He would not weep for their satisfaction in public. Inside his heart could shatter into a million pieces, but outwardly he would affect courage. He must seem unchanged, the firm rebel who would become a martyr for his cause.

As the guards dragged a struggling Foley up the rough, wooden steps, John thought suddenly of Alfred and the sadness in his eyes. Would he turn out like Bruce? Would he prove just another old ghost to accompany better, wiser men to their graves?

Bane pressed close to his side. The smug satisfaction oozed off him. He watched with appreciative eyes as the hood was drawn over Foley's face and the noose wrapped securely around his neck. John shivered. If he could, he’d have run for miles. Found some wide open space and screamed out his frustration. Where was the justice in this? How could the world sit back and allow such cruelty and wanton destruction to rule?

In the seconds before the trapdoor opened beneath Foley's feet, John's face flinched away. He couldn't bear it- He couldn't- Thick fingers wrested his gaze back into place and held him there until the man's feet stopped twitching. Fury. Grief. Anguish. The emotions buffeted John. Helplessness wasn't his thing. He always thought he would fight to the end with whatever he could lay his hands on. The idea he would end his days as a broken marionette…

The young man closed his eyes as they took the body down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: In this Chapter, there is some discussion/implied threat of NonCon, but progresses no further. There is also some additional violence, but again the descriptions aren't overly graphic.
> 
> Without giving much away... the ending is drawing nigh.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me so far! <3


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Everything was in place for the second man to die, when the lookout on the city's main gatepost suddenly sprang to attention. Peering out into the distance, his mouth dropped open in confusion. "My Lord!" he called across to Bane, taking advantage of the calm, spring day to let his voice travel. The people watching the executions below were smothered in a deathly hush. Their sullen demeanour worried John. How much further would they let Bane push them, he wondered, before the rage boiled over into a suicidal mêlée?

"My Lord, there are three riders approaching the city and I do not recognise their garb."

The executioner on the platform below finished his preparations and looked to Bane for the final signal to proceed. Momentarily distracted, Bane signed impatiently that he should wait a moment. The gates to the city were closed. They’d been shut an entire day before the executions and guarded fiercely; Bane was unwilling to risk the remnants of Robin's men disturbing his theatrical showpiece.

"They're still approaching, my Lord. What shall I do?"

"Wait,” growled Bane. "Let us see what they have to say for themselves."

John could feel the tension building, but the sole focus of his attention and compassion was the man lingering on the gallows in a heart wrenching space between life and death. Finally, his ears picked out the unmistakeable rhythm of hoof beats. All in attendance at the grim spectacle fell to silence, waiting for the moment when the sound of the horses would pause and the riders wait for the gates to open. It happened quicker than John expected and the sudden silence was almost arrogant in its confidence.

Finally, the nervous gatekeeper wrenched his helmet from his head. "Speak your name and purpose," he demanded shrilly, bent over the battlements.

A clear, calm voice rang out across the entire gathered crowd, "Open in the name of the King!"

Bane started, catching John's shoulder in a vicious grip that was definitely going to add to his extensive bruise collection. "It can't be," he choked out, his already pale face chalking with rage.

With astounding authority, the voice called once more, "Open in the name of the King!"

"What should I do?" choked the lookout in a panic.

Bane scoffed, "You miserable idiot. Do nothing. The gates stay barred." Raising his voice, he shoved John forwards. Crushing the smaller man into the grey stone of the battlements, he forced his bruised face downwards. "This is nothing. It is a trick organised by the pathetic fools still loyal to Robin Hood. We will proceed as planned."

"My Lord,” stammered another soldier on the gates. "I don't know if it's important, but one of the riders is about to fire a burning arrow towards the gates."

Bane pulled John around to face him, shaking him like a rag doll. "Is this one of your games?" he demanded with a snarl.

Though his face was puffy and his tongue thick in his mouth, John managed to spit furiously, "I know nothing about it."

Turning back to the gallows below, Bane started to order the executioner to proceeded when an almighty roar, like the sound of thunder but so much worse, echoed across the city. John stumbled into his captor with his ears ringing. It felt as though the earth itself had shuddered. Gradually, John realised there was screaming. A lot of screaming. And the smell of smoke.

\---

Forcing his eyes to focus, he peered out across the castle courtyard. Instead of stout gates there now stood a gaping hole. One of the doors must have been shattered, but the other hung limply on its hinges. Fire billowed up from the floor, sending plumes of smoke tumbling into the air. Even the stone walls were damaged. That was when John realised he knew exactly what had happened. Someone had used Fox's powder to blow the castle gates to smithereens.

John prayed as he never had in his life that his men were not alone in this undertaking. If they were storming the castle, they must have found support, surely, please…

The poor gatekeeper, deafened and thrown to the floor by the impact, now pulled himself up in the ruins. He understood immediately he was lucky to be alive. Staring stupidly out to the land and city below, he saw strange, dark shapes emerging in the distance from Arkham Forest. His eyes drifted in twisted circles, as he informed nonsensically, "Myyy l-Lord. The forest. Army. An army!"

He passed out cold, but someone below took up the call. "An army! We are to be saved!"

\--- 

Bane didn't linger to establish further details. Chaos roared to life below as the people found the courage to attack their oppressors. Desperate, they resorted to whatever weapons they could find. The furious cries of battle brought a strangely soft smile to John's face. If they were to be rescued, his fight was over. He could slip mercifully now into oblivion without having to worry about a legacy of shame.

Bane apparently had other ideas. Seizing Blake by the scruff of the neck, he forced the man before him and down the steps that would lead them back into the depths of the castle.

His spirit recovered, John attempted to resist the momentum. Bane practically had to shove him down the stairs, relying on the soldiers advancing before them to break the boy’s fall. At the bottom, he wrapped an arm around John's chest and crushed him in the mockery of a passionate embrace. John groaned at the pressure placed on his injured ribs. "Don't test my patience, Blake."

Driving him onwards, the two of them arrived at the throne room, accompanied by Bane's personal guards. Throwing the doors open, Queen Miranda burst in. She had abandoned her beautiful gowns, opting instead to uniform herself like one of Bane's soldiers in a tunic and leggings made of practical dark cloth. Dressed to fight, armed to the teeth, and with passion burning fiercely in her soul, John was astounded by the sublime quality of her rage. This was the steel that had leant such authority to her lone reign. No wonder the people bowed to her.

"It is my ridiculous husband," she exclaimed in sheer frustration. Marching towards Bane, she stabbed a clawed finger in his direction. "You promised you would take care of him. He’s supposed to be crippled and dying in a foreign prison, not leading an army to liberate this miserable country!"

If Bane had an excuse, John never had chance to hear it. The noise of clashing swords and the shrieks of wounded men had been drawing steadily nearer. As if on cue, the double doors to the throne room swung open. This was the entrance through which Bane had strode with impunity months ago to take control of an abandoned kingdom, and now, standing in the same place was King Bruce. His armour was resplendent, glinting gold in the fantastic spring sunshine. Joy swelled in John's heart. He couldn't keep the smile from his face, as he attempted to go to his king.

He was pulled up short by Bane, who secured his arm back around his chest and another under his neck. Fear shot like a bolt through John. He knew what this position meant- Bane was securing the leverage to snap his neck. His eyes flew wildly to King Bruce. Surely now, surely it would be over? Earlier he would have probably welcomed such a swift end, but not now. No, God damn it. Now he wanted to live and fight by his king's side.

"You were supposed to be _dead_ ," spat the Queen.

"Such a warm reception from my loving wife. Here I was expecting to find you still in mourning."

"Don’t mock me! I wish I had killed you outright. All those nights I lay by your side. I could have slit your throat while you were sleeping." John had never heard such venom in anybody's words before. Whatever motive the Queen had, it must be deeply personal.

"But you didn't, Miranda. Or do you prefer Talia? That is your true name, isn't it, daughter of R'as Al Gul."

"You're not worthy to speak of him," she shrieked hysterically. "You murdered him!"

"He challenged my legal right to assume the throne and I subsequently defeated and banished him. I did not murder him."

"Gotham was rightfully his. You knew of his fate after banishment and let him fester in a foreign prison. Someone else may have carried out the dirty work, but his blood is on your conscience."

Bruce, his face tanned from the strong desert heat, took a step forwards. If everything Bane had told him was to be believed, the Sheriff had left him a cripple with little chance of physical recovery, able only to hear letters detailing Gotham's destruction read to him. This Bruce, however, looked healthy, certainly of a sounder disposition than when he left. His expression radiated serenity and calm.

"Aside from a distant blood relation to the former Queen, your father had no right to rule Gotham. I was named as successor and the people accepted me."

"It doesn't matter." Miranda stepped back away from the king, obviously faltering towards a small door that led to a flight of stairs. "I will see him avenged. You could have saved him. You could have spared him. Do you know what it was like, growing up in that prison? To be a defenceless child amongst hordes of robbers, rapists, and killers? Your people believe King Bruce is a good man, but I know the truth and soon so will they. You are a miserable coward who cannot save those he has sworn to protect."

"It's over, Talia."

"No, it isn't." She had regained an eerie sense of calm by now, clearly aware that Bruce had control of the situation and wanting to switch that balance of power, "There are a chain of men awaiting my command. If I give the word, they will set fire to various places across the city and Gotham will burn." She fled up the stairs. The king impatiently itched to follow, but Bane dragged John into his path.

"Move and I'll snap his neck."

\---

"Your months in power must have made you soft. Last time we met, you fought like a man; now, you cower behind a boy."

If John wasn't almost certain that King Bruce was attempting to rile Bane up into letting him go, he'd have been cross about the 'boy' comment. So what if he was a few years behind in the age game? They'd had a head start. Also, had the king not been paying attention to the fact John single-handedly lead a tiny rebel force against the might of an invading army?

Bane's grip loosened a fraction around his neck, as he seemingly considered his enemy's taunt. John knew the man to be many things - cruel, sadistic, ruthless, but he wasn't stupid or cowardly. If Bane fought, it was because he chose to. King Bruce could talk and goad until he was blue in the face, but it wouldn't change Bane's reaction.

It was this single-minded determination mixed with wily calculation, perhaps, that John found most terrifying. Lord Bane was a man with a cause, and if you found yourself in opposition to what he was attempting to achieve, you could do nothing to dissuade him. He had moved like a force of nature over Gotham's landscape, flattening its buildings, its prosperity, its confidence, spectacularly and all in the name of revenge.

But underneath, always, remained his capacity for physical violence. Though his own body must be constantly ravaged with pain, Bane was as patient as any predator, drawing out the kill with precision. His training must have been fearsome. The seconds ticked by, as Bane weighed up his options, matched them to his ultimate goals. Never had John felt his life to be so literally in the balance.

Finally, in a smooth, powerful motion, Bane flung John from him. He hurtled towards King Bruce, emitting a choked noise. The unexpected push jolted his ribs. He couldn't even stop the reflexive action of bringing his hands up. King Bruce, moving deftly, caught him as gently as possible by his upper arms. They paused and John couldn't describe the emotion that shot through him. He felt like a weary traveller who had finally returned home after years of wandering in the wilderness.

The moment was broken by the unexpected clank of armour. A soldier, running for his life, collapsed wounded into the mouth of the open hall doors. His appearance heralded the arrival of the wider battle. In moments, the hall rang with desperate shouts and the crash of blades, as King Bruce's men fought to retake the kingdom. In amongst the chaos, John - who had been carefully lowered to the floor - lost sight of Bane and the king.

Anxiously, he assessed King Bruce's chances in one on one combat. Clearly, Bane had beaten him in their last encounter. John was certain the sheriff was bigger, stronger, the less scrupulous fighter. But then, the king looked powerful now… His face was set with determination, rather than despair.

John had never seen him during the truly dark times, during the months when a man people would only refer to as 'The Joker' prowled the streets of Gotham, bringing with him the fires of anarchy. He imagined, though, that this was what the king had been like back then, revived by the battle cries and a clear cut cause.

Shoving his way through the tumult, John dragged his injured body back towards the stairs Bane guarded. What he saw left his mouth hanging open. Never, _never_ had John seen two men fight like this. The blows Bane directed towards King Bruce's abdomen and solar plexus would have struck him like boulders, flattening him in seconds.

It was only at this moment that John could appreciate how gentle Bane had been with him, how he must have only been playing when they fought… But then, hadn't he told John from the start he viewed him as a precious object, baiting him like one would a small animal?

\---

He shivered, vehemently disliking yet another revelation of just how Bane had been toying with him. Yet for all the power of the man's punches, King Bruce barely flinched. Bane was literally denting his armour and still the king made no sound. In fact, he returned like for like and then some. He must have been informed about Bane's physical incapacitation, because he struck for the man's chin, face, and neck as often as possible.

When he landed a sound blow to Bane's right cheek… The sound Bane emitted was more animal than human, raising the hairs on the back of John's neck. And despite the fact that Bane had broken his hands, murdered his friends, and betrayed his king, John couldn't fight back a treacherous sliver of pity for his continuous suffering.

Underneath his simmering anger and desire for whatever justice the world could offer, John couldn't fight against his natural disposition towards compassion. Bane and Miranda wrought their destruction in the name of vengeance. John inflicted violence not in enjoyment, but in order to protect, to keep others from suffering the pain he had. The black fabric concealing Bane's injuries from the prying eyes of the world pooled around his neck.

For the first time, John saw his face in the daylight and he looked hunted.

\---

The way his eyes roved summoned to mind a wounded wild boar, turning to make a final stand against its pursuers, willing to embrace death, but on its own violent terms. He might go down, but Bane would take whoever else he could with him. Two or three more blows to the face had him on the floor, crumpled against the ruins of a table. King Bruce bent over him, presumably talking.

But whatever he was doing, he wasn't watching Bane’s hands. John saw him fumbling around the top of his boot; he realised with aching slowness that Bane was reaching for a weapon. He opened his mouth to shout, but the words caught in his throat as someone yanked him back by the shirt collar. His attacker spun him round.

Blake was confronted with the maddened visage of a mercenary. A large red stain blossoming from his chest informed John the man was not long for this world. The desperate fear in the man's eyes communicated his understanding of his own, dreadful mortality. In the craze of his pain, he was lashing out at whomever he could reach until his body failed to respond to the commands of the mind.

It would have been wrong to say that John felt no anger towards the soldiers who had systematically broken his ability to fight and defend himself. But it was now that his anger flared into rage. Having spent months waiting, wishing, hoping for this day to arrive, Blake wanted to be able to look back knowing he had defended himself like a man. Bane, by wrapping his hands up like a coddled toddler, was still winning, still stripping him of his pride.

Desperate only to get back to the king, John made a snap decision. Throwing his head forwards with all the power he could muster, he crashed his forehead into the bridge of the man's nose. He felt it crunch against his skin. The impulsive action dazed the faltering soldier, but his knees were crumpling even as the blood started to gush from his broken nose. No longer a threat to him, Blake did not hesitate to turn back.

He'd only turned away for a few seconds, but it was enough. Blake looked back to see King Bruce curved inwards, bowed around the point where Bane's hand connected with his stomach. "No!" cried John, all thoughts of his own pain forgotten. He tried to push forwards, but there were bodies piled everywhere. He'd moved only a few feet when another of those terrible shudders rocked the castle.

The power of the blast threw him to the floor. Unable to control his landing well, John's temple collided with the corner of a wooden bench they had used in better days for grand banquets. Temporarily slipping into unconsciousness, he missed King Bruce straighten up with difficulty, pulling out the bloodied knife in order to toss it contemptuously at Lord Bane's feet.

He missed how the blast that knocked him out, in fact, heralded the arrival of Lady Selina and the final routing of those most loyal to the tyrannical regime. John didn't see how the debris pummelled into Bane's already beaten, weakened frame. As the dust settled, he missed the silent slip two figures made up the staircase after the Queen.

He awoke to find himself alone amidst a sea of corpses.

\--- 

Distantly, he could hear shouts still coming from outside. Although men tramped past the Great Hall, none ventured through the gaping opening. The fine carved doors had been reduced to nothing more than splinters and shards of wood. The decorative tapestries once brightening the walls of grey stone still hung, but they were either blackened and singed or still burned. Smoke and ash tainted the air, powdering his skin and hair grey.

 

After some moments, John was able to sit up. Dragging himself to his knees, he used whatever remained of the furniture to move forwards. He wasn't sure where he was going, but an idea possessed him about the stairway, the place where Queen Miranda had disappeared.

John was in the process of moving from the support of one table to another when he became aware of another sound. It was lower than the noises outside, rasping. Glancing around in alarm, his gaze settled finally on a trembling pile of brick and rubble a few feet away. There could be no doubt this was where the rattling sound was emanating from.

Carefully, he picked his way forwards, perversely thankful the bandages were protecting his fingers from the worst of the rough material littering the ground. Reaching the shaking heap, John brushed the debris away like one in a dream. When he came face to face with Bane's shaved head, he started back. The man's body rolled limply onto its back, the mouth falling open to emit those terrible, terrible breaths. A death rattle.

The only part of Bane's body still capable of directed movement appeared to be his eyes. They darted across the ceiling, until at last settling on John. At first, they were blank, but gradually Blake was certain a fraction of Bane's soul recovered to burn bright in his black pupils. His mouth moved, forming shapes John knew honestly to be words. Here, he would be the only witness to the last speech of a dying man. Could he rightly deny Bane chance to be heard?

Swallowing his own terror, John returned to the body. He lowered his ear so that it hovered over Bane’s mouth; he was so close he could feel the warm puffs of air as they man exhaled weakly. The sheriff repeated his phrase several times in his delirium, a fact for which John was glad because his speech was difficult to comprehend. "I loved her," was all he said. Again and Again.

It didn't take John long to understand. "The Queen? This was all for her, wasn't it?" Blake was temporarily surprised at how alien and nasal his voice sounded thanks to the broken nose; how much his face hurt to move even the smallest amount.

Bane screwed up his hideous face and hissed a laugh from between damaged teeth and bloodied gums. "For her, yes. Always for her. I am her protector."

Blake didn't want to hear anymore. It would be easy, so easy even with his wounded hands, to find a knife. He could slip it through the man's ribcage or across his throat and it end it now, end it when Lord Bane was still more monster than man. John didn't want to hear the rationale, didn't need testimony to further confuse his already perplexed feelings.

\---

Deep down, even though he knew Bane would loathe such a sentiment, John's heart was moved once more with pity. Bane seemed nothing more than a giant brought low, a beached leviathan, left by those that had baited it to shore to expire in agony. Would Bane have come back to Gotham, to exact his revenge without the inspiration provided by this Talia? John had no idea. He needed to keep reminding himself that Bane was a stranger and a murderer; he was simply imposing his own ideals on a mostly mute subject.

But Bane kept whispering those half-formed but not-nonsensical enough sentences. "I saved her from the prison. It was me, after her father. The others- they didn't like that."

And God forgive him, John couldn't help but see it, couldn't help but envisage a terrible prison in the hot desert. He saw the leering faces of men desperate for any sensation of touch, reaching out in a wild frenzy to satiate their horrendous, inhuman appetites. He could see Talia, beautiful Queen Miranda, as an innocent child running from their outstretched filthy hands.

She was racing for her life, fleeing to the only man who could keep her safe. John had no idea how she actually escaped this place, but he could imagine what happened after. The way men swarmed furiously about the one who had ruined their sole hope of fleeting enjoyment. Bane's face must have been more complete then, a close counterpart to the striking features he once used to command the respect and loyalty of entire armies, to convince men to rebel against their king.

John pressed his hands to his face, wildly attempting to block out the phantom screams. What could he do? He hadn't forced Bane to come here. He'd no personal quarrel with him until he started to terrorise the city. Despite all the wrong Bane had done, when Blake watched a single, silent tear slip from the man's eye, there was only one choice left.

Choking back a sob, he began to push the pieces of stone and wood from Bane's body. "Damn you," he choked, then louder, "Damn you. No," he said wildly, "no. This is not the end."

Bane's chest shook, his normal rumbling laughter eerily absent. "Why do you care, John Blake? Leave me to die. I deserve no better."

Bane was right; he deserved to die. He deserved to hang just like Captain Foley, deserved to be sentenced in a mockery of a court. At the end of the day, though, John's actions weren't just about Bane. "No. You're not going to die. If I sit by and do nothing that makes me no better than you."

Frantically, he began to assess the gaping wounds on Bane's body. He’d bled a lot, but he was a large man. Perhaps so much blood for a normal human wasn't so mortal for him? "I escaped the castle through an underground passage. Is there another?" Bane made no answer, so John slammed his throbbing fingers down onto the man's shoulders. Eyelids snapped open, revealing a lazy gaze. "Is there another way out you can take?"

"What if there is? I have no strength and no wish to seek it; without her, I have nothing left to live for."

"Don't be so cowardly. There's always something else to live for." Roughly, John ripped the fabric from his own hands. As well as he was able, he started to bind the most obvious wound to Bane’s arm. Then, he placed the heavy limb about his shoulders. "Sit up, damn you. Sit up! I can't lift you on my own; you saw to that."

For a moment, there was no response, but grudgingly he felt Bane's muscles shift. The man emitted a soft groan as the motion forced him to compress a large wound to his lower chest. Now able to work, Blake pulled the bandage from his other hand, winding it in a pathetic compress about the wound. The entire stretch of fabric only circled Bane's body twice.

All the while, he babbled only half aware of what he was saying, "If you can walk, get out. Find someone else to protect, someone who won't leave you to die. Give your loyalty to someone who views it as more than an offering to be sacrificed."

\---

Bane gradually became more lucid. At first, he seemed to watch John’s fussing as one outside his own body. Blake wasn't sure what changed, but he could sense the desire to breathe, survive, live stirred in his veins. Bane clearly had assumed his purpose would end when Talia's did, whatever the outcome. Maybe now he sensed a glimmer of the one quality he had sought so hard to dampen in Gotham: hope.

Bizarrely encouraged, in what John could only define as hysteria- a momentary madness, he spouted nonsense about affection and loyalty and shifting it to someone who deserved it better. Anger was Bane's first response. What did this boy know about Talia? About what she had suffered? But then it was as though the breath of his words began to stir the cobwebs in his head.

He had become mired in his plans for the destruction of Gotham. Failure sat badly with him, but if the shame became too much… Well, there were other ways a man could leave this world. He didn't need to expire on the floor of this pitiful castle in the arms of his enemy to achieve immortal honour.

With surprising agility, he thrust his hand out, catching Blake off guard. He could almost fit the boy's entire neck into the grip of one hand. It was so fragile, so pathetically human. His pulse jumped wildly against Bane's palm. "What would you do," he whispered, his mouth distorting the words, "if I left here only to start killing again? How could you justify having those lives on your conscience?"

John's brown eyes narrowed, "I swear, I am going to use a bow and arrow again. If I hear the slightest rumour you've started killing, I will hunt you down. You won't even have time to know it was me. The shot that takes your life will be so accurate, you won't know that you’re dead." John's words were spoken with such vehemence, Bane couldn't help but believe their sincerity.

With great difficulty, Bane shifted to his knees. In the process, he pushed John towards the floor. The soldier, their romantic rebel, didn't even try to fight him. He seemed stunned by the horror of the monster he'd unleashed. "What's to stop me killing you?" he heard Bane ask. "You are, after all, responsible in part for my failure."

\---

"You've had many opportunities to kill me before."

"You were of use to us then."

John pressed his pale lips together, refusing to offer another retort. If Bane was going to kill him, Blake would rather he got on with it. Inch by inch, Bane shuffled his heavy body closer to the man beneath him, pressing down until he settled as an extra weight on the boy's ribcage. It was strangely tantalising, to feel to intimately the struggle for breath. To watch John's mouth open in half gasps.

He pushed down harder and experimentally squeezed the throat in his hand. Instinctively, he felt John's legs and arms tense, as his body prepared to thrash in its fight or flight reaction. Blake's head shifted from side to side in a vain effort to dislodge the restriction. After several heartbeats, Bane withdrew gently, allowing the boy to greedily swallow air.

Bane briefly lifted the hand pinning Blake to the floor, examining with satisfaction the red marks on his neck. While John lay recovering, Bane took the opportunity to run his other hand across the smooth contours of John's cheek. He absorbed every detail - the ridge of the broken nose, the bruising underneath the eye, the concave shape of the shattered cheekbone. All damage he'd wrought. Blake's torture would have been a masterpiece if he'd been allowed to continue.

His free hand drifted down the rough cotton of Blake's shirt, coming to rest just above John's heart. It pulsated wildly beneath his palm, run ragged by the shots of adrenaline supplied in the heat of fear and crisis. John's gaze widened when Bane dragged the hand lower, dragging across his stomach to rest on a thin hipbone. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. The overtures Bane had made towards him had hardly been subtle, but this simple motion felt more powerful than any vocal declaration.

John, when asked, would not have pinned Bane as a man of the flesh. He seemed too preoccupied with twisted ideals. But clearly even idealists could not ignore the whims of their own bodies. Blake just wasn't all too thrilled at being the source of that reawakened interest.

The moment of connection and recognition faded, as Bane wheezed, "It'll be easier this way."

John didn't have time to ask what he meant. The grip returned with more force than before, closing off his airway entirely. John's weak struggles were no match for the power in Bane’s muscles, even injured as he was. He pressed firmly, mercilessly against him, squeezing whatever air there was from his chest.

John's broken hands, bared to the air after the sacrifice of his own bandages, beat weakly against the armour on his chest. There was nothing the boy could do.

Blake swallowed repeatedly, hating that this was the way it all had to end. As a soldier, he couldn't help but think about the idea of dying in battle, of falling in the heat of the crossfire or amongst the parries of blades, but like this? Injured and choking, blotchy and undignified, pressed intimately against the body of his killer? Gradually thinking became difficult and white spots started to dance before his eyes.

Darkness was beckoning him, stretching out her arms to envelop his weary body. Perhaps it wasn't so bad? As he slipped towards unconsciousness, that panicked desire for air faded into resignation. Maybe Bane was right. Maybe it would be easier this way.

\--- 

They found him hours later, pale as death and with a ring of purple bruises about his neck to add to the injuries spread across the rest of his body.

Sitting up groggily, John felt the throbbing of his windpipe and immediately glanced about him for Bane.

The man was gone, melted back into the shadows from whence he'd come. King Bruce only ever asked him once what happened. John mumbled something about examining the body and Bane taking the advantage. It had the merit of being mostly true and the king was courteous enough to leave the matter there. John knew he wasn't satisfied, but equally he would offer no further information.

When he asked about the Queen, Bruce's expression darkened. "She threw herself from the battlements," he said shortly. John's nights were haunted by this image of the graceful woman who could have been so wonderful, plunging towards the unforgiving earth. Sometimes she tumbled spitting with rage, but the worst nights were when she simply stood on the edge, facing the castle. With her arms spread and her eyes closed in anticipation of the peace that would finally arrive, she just let herself fall back into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there we are! An admitted mangle of some corny!Robin Hood style dialogue and influences from Lord of the Rings, Inception, and Macbeth, and we're a reasonable step along the way to a happy ending!
> 
> Thank you again for all your positive responses and kind words!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

He longed more than anything to forget the nightmarish year, but ceremony ruled his day and the dreams haunted his nights. King Bruce honoured him for his heroism with a title and lands. Ladies he once admired as semi-divine creatures above his station in life flocked to him. Men would clap him on the back and every soldier in the tattered remnants of Gotham's army hung onto his words.

John was offered a promotion within the army to match his title, but politely declined. He was much happier, at the end of the day, by the side of his king.

Men were sent out to search for Lord Bane. They returned empty handed and eventually the parties ceased to set out from the castle. Perhaps Bruce assumed the man must have perished from his injuries somewhere hidden in the forest or the city's sewers? John didn't know and wasn't at all inclined to ask. Part of him still burned with shame at his muddled thoughts; in the cold light of day the idea that maybe Bane could be redeemed if only shown some genuine kindness seemed ridiculous.

He must have had a concussion, that was the only logical explanation he could come up with.

At first, the attention he received was novel, but John’s injuries lingered. His fingers healed slowly and the cold of the winter was only going to make the joints stiff. Brooding wasn't an occupation he'd been familiar with, but lately he'd spent hours just watching soldiers train down at the archery field. One evening, he'd tried to pick up a bow, but the mere act of wrapping his fingers around the wood reduced him to a small ball of agony.

John grew listless and disenchanted. Eventually King Bruce (who, much to John's delight had been spending a large amount of time with the pardoned, but still incorrigibly wicked, Lady Kyle and Alfred - who had been speedily rescued from the rotting cottage on Bruce’s estate) wandered over to him, as he nursed a small cup of wine. "I understand you feel you have a duty here, but everybody deserves to have a rest at some point. Your title came with lands and I've heard there's a rather lovely manor house on one of the southern estates."

John didn't need to hear the hint twice.

He set out the next day and was welcomed by a small group of servants who could all easily have been related to the magnificent Alfred for the knowing way they observed his pale, tired face and lost expression. They made for John in that grey stone building hidden amongst woodland one thing the young man had not experienced for many years: a home.

Disturbed only by the arrival of the best doctor King Bruce could locate, John prepared with relief to spend the winter harboured away from the demands of court life, the flirtatious giggles of ladies, or the demands to retell this adventure or that. Blake knew the smouldering fire in his soul would return, but perhaps for now it was best not to fight against the demands of his own body.

\---

Everything progressed well and by the time John was able to bend his fingers without feeling pain, he began to notice one or two odd things. It started on a ride through the woodland, observing with a guide the local practice of coppicing. Here and there lower branches lay shattered on the floor, as though something of a large size had forced its way through the enclosed space.

Blake was puzzled for a moment and then promptly forgot all about it. What did he know? Those branches might have been stripped as part of the process of preparing the tree trunks or it could have been animals – he vaguely recalled someone talking about wild boar in the area.

It slipped his mind, until he noticed the flowers below the sill of one of the ground floor windows, offering a view into the room John was using as a study. The first crisp white blooms of spring – a wave of delicate snowdrops – had been entirely flattened. Something (or someone) must have made their way into the flower bed. John shuddered at the idea a stranger might have been lurking in the walled garden, peering at him as he worked. As John went over to investigate, he told himself it must have been an animal.

In the wet soil, two large footprints were clearly discernible. Not an animal, then. He didn't need to look at his reflection to know the colour was gone from his face.

An idea occurred to him that curled with a cold shiver down his spine. It couldn't be…

Alarmed, he started to look about him, but there was no sign of any other presence. It must have just been a gardener. They walked about in the beds at lot at the moment, examining the bulbs and preparing the earth for the arrival of a new season.

But incidents continued to occur. Not with regularity, but with frequency enough John was starting to worry. Still. Nothing _bad_ , per se, had happened. No bodies left on the lawns with twisted necks. No reports of monsters lurking under the ground. On top of that, he'd not actually got any tangible proof of his suspicions either. There had been no sightings- no sounds-

The last straw came, however, one rainy day in late January when the man who had been lying in wait - presumably with the intention of robbing him - on the road that led to his new home, half ran, half stumbled past in a complete frenzy of panic. "Don't go back there! It's an animal, I tell you! It's crazed!"

John watched him race back to the village, still shouting about humungous beasts stalking through the forest. He frowned, understanding with a heavy heart that he could bury his head in the sand no longer. Although, it still had to be noted that the would-be-robber wasn't dead, just a little frightened. This fact alone was capable of offering John some reassurance that his worst fears weren't about to be realised.

\---

And so, it was with some trepidation that John began the habit of preparing himself a final warm drink to take up to bed for the night. He kept a candle burning in the kitchen window and left the back door unlocked, wondering the whole time whether he was making yet another mistake, whether Bane would finish the job properly given this chance.

For a month, nothing happened. Then one night, when John was cutting an apple, he heard the unmistakeable rattle of the metal latch. His heart skipped a beat. But even as he slipped the knife up his sleeve (just in case), his stomach flipped treacherously in a peak of excitement. Turning, he found himself face to face with a looming shadow, hulking silently in the doorway.

Determined not to appear startled in his own home, John simply arched an eyebrow. "I suppose there's a good reason why you're living in my wood, scaring the local pick-pocket, and flattening my flowers?"

"You said I should find a new reason to live for.

If possible, John’s eyebrow raised even further and he found himself unable to voice the numerous questions on the tip of his tongue. Blake’s mind was already whirring with a hundred different reasons why this was wrong, very wrong, possibly the worst news ever. John said a lot of things to a lot of people and most of them really ought to be ignored.

"At first I didn't think it would be possible, but I believe I've settled the matter now."

There was a glint in his eye that informed John beneath the black cloth the man must be smiling. It was the sort of devilish twinkle that suggested blandly John was, from that point on, irrevocably doomed.

One of these days, he was going to start listening to Father Gordon and learn when to keep his mouth shut.

\---

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a tiny chapter - more of an epilogue, really - to finish. When I originally posted this, I was in two minds about the ending (mainly wondering whether something a little bleaker) and I still am. But, for various reasons, I felt the more forgiving path suited. Hopefully the more optimistic resolution was worth the wait! 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your lovely encouragement - this did take me longer to post than expected, but I think it's benefited from a fresh perspective and edit! <3
> 
> P.S. Just in case anyone was curious, the title 'Adveniat Regnum Tuum' is taken from the Latin version of the Lord's Prayer and translates to 'Thy Kingdom come'.


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